Vengeance and Justice: The Harpy and the Hippogriff
by Psykic Ninja
Summary: A newly risen Ghiscari Legate finds himself thrust into the chaos of war: His mission; to destroy the enemies of a city that fears him and a people who do not know him. His dream; to bring about a revolution that will topple the corrupt masters of the city and shake the world to it's very core...
1. Legate I

_A/N: Okay, so this story follows on from the Ghiscari plotline in A Game of Vengeance and Justice. Needless to say there are heavy spoilers for the events in that plotline here._

 _The story will be broken into three parts, this is the beginning of the first part: Legate, the other two will follow on after it._

 _As another note, this story will be told entirely from the perspective of Marghaz, no changing POVs here. Review it, see what you think, and I hope you enjoy. Also, feel free to ask any questions in the reviews, I will answer them as best I can._

Compared to the sheer size of the slaver cities of Yunkai, Astapor and Meereen, New Ghis was small. It's harbour was less than half the size of the smallest of the three, it's population whilst larger in terms of free men, was much smaller when slaves were counted. This was the city that claimed the rights to the first empire that ever existed, yet all it is, is a pit of corruption and decadence; of craven Masters who attempted to hold their own power whilst murdering those who could achieve the dream of their rhetoric.

Marghaz shook his head, the masters had summoned him and he needed his wits about him if he was to survive the meeting. His fingers of flesh curled into a fist. He had hoped to exact immediate vengeance for the murder of his mentor in the sands of Meereen, but the Legates had struck out on their own, each seeking to be the one to replace Djoran zo Marok as the best commander amongst New Ghis' legions. Now, as Legate of a legion, Marghaz had to do the same, prove himself in battle to become Djoran's legitimate successor.

He made his way down the market street, wending through the mingling crowd of bronzed men and women moving from stall to stall and store to store, exploring the merchandise brought in on the latest trade ships, or brought in from the conquest of Meereen. The city was still half drunk on victory over Daenerys Targaryen and already puppeteers and mummers were playing out the scenes of the great Ghiscari victory in the streets. He scoffed, if it was a victory the price was far too high, if not, then many good legionnaires were dead for nothing. He did not know which was worse.

The Pyramid of the Masters was at the end of the street, a great Harpy of bronze stood atop it, clutching a thunderbolt in each claw and crying to the sky. It was the centre of the city, and by the time he was done, it would be torn down, the stone would be used as cairns for the fallen, better men than those inhabiting it. The guards outside were equipped in the same manner as the legions, but they did not know battlefields, instead they were to guard the city and the city alone, trained and sworn to do only that. There were dozens of them outside the main entrance to the pyramid, clutching spears and cudgels and making sure no one entered who was uninvited. As he approached himself, five of them immediately moved over, blocking his path.

"What do you want?" One of them asked, an officer, based on the two spikes on his helmet.

Marghaz held out his right hand, his legate's ring on his middle finger. Most legates had their ring on their left hands, but Marghaz didn't have a left hand, so he used his right. "I have been summoned," he said calmly.

The guard examined the ring and then held out his hand. "Your weapons, we cannot let you before the masters, not armed as you are."

Marghaz handed over his falcata and his small curved dagger with great discontent, an unarmed man was so much easier to murder, but he had no choice. If he did not answer their summons they would declare him a traitor and hang him.

The guards stood aside and allowed Marghaz to pass.

The inside of the Pyramid was a welcome relief from the outside heat: The place was well ventilated and there were fountains shaped like harpies at most corners filling pools with clear water. Marghaz had seen them enough with his father, so he moved past them to the chamberlain, who would tell him where he was to go in the pyramid. "Marghaz mo Teldak," he said to the man simply.

The man nodded. "Down that corridor," he said, pointing to the left, "the door at the end." The Chamberlains would be picked from slaves with the best memories, they would be prided on their ability to memorise a day's events.

Marghaz made his way down the corridor, past tapestries of past glories and triumphs, and statues of old set back in alcoves, to the hard wooden door at the end. The guard outside opened the door and he stepped through.

It was a small chamber, a stone desk sat atop a raised dais, three Masters sat at it, their hair twirled into elaborate shapes like wings and tails, their clothes heavy and rich. Masters were nothing if not extravagant. "Legate Marghaz," the one in the middle greeted, who had a whole harpy made out of his red-brown hair atop his head. It looked utterly ridiculous, as they all did.

"We promised that you would be given your own command," he explained softly. "We said, following the Meereen campaign, that you would be sent to Sothoryos, to reinforce our men in the colonies."

Marghaz nodded, they had said that, but first he had returned to New Ghis, giving his legionnaires time with their families, and time to re-equip and re-supply. "Your men are prepared."

"As ever," Marghaz said back to them. "To defend the glory of Ghis."

The Masters nodded. "Then you shall sail in three days, make for the port of Ghaereen, the Consul there shall be in command, you shall obey him. Your… tutelage under Legate Djoran-" Marghaz felt his fist tighten again and his lip curl into a snarl. "May have given you predispositions towards higher command, you will have them only when you have earned them, as he did."

"As it should be," Marghaz interrupted, there was little his mentor hated more than promotion through connections.

The Masters did not like being interrupted, but did not react harshly. "Quite," the one on the left said. "But unlike him, you will not overstep your place." It was not a question, so Marghaz did not reply. "Enjoy civilisation whilst you still have it," the Master continued. "Tomorrow you travel to Ghaen to collect your legionnaires, then you sail for Sothoryos."

Marghaz nodded and bowed his head. Then, when they waved their hands in dismissal, he turned and left.

After collecting his weapons from the guards outside, he made his way into the city itself. He may not like it, but battle alone would not defeat the masters, politicking was involved, and not all of that happened in the pyramids.

He made his way past stalls, taverns and brothels, including the infamous Hall of the Hundred Daughters, the brothel of the man who had filled it with his slave-born daughters, though that practice was finished. Finally he made it to his destination, the bathhouse. Djoran had often told him that the Masters would politick in their pyramids, the commoners would do so in the brothels and the soldiers would do so in the bathhouse.

The slave girls who worked the bath house in the name of their masters were all smiles and breasts. Unlike the dung-gatherers and worse, these slaves had a relatively easy lot in life. They had the best clothes, for no one would enter a bathhouse with slaves who looked no better that street rats; they were fed well and had trained hands and cunts, which they only had to use on occasion. He made his way over to the dressing rooms, removing his cloak, clothes and weapons and passing them over to the slaves who managed the dressing rooms. However, he kept his Legate ring and steel hand with him, for he could not be sure that they would not be taken. In return, they passed him a soft silk robe and directed him to the hot baths.

He entered the room to find, as expected, the officers of his legion, Serjeants, Centurions and Tribunes, were all lounging in the steaming water. "Legate!" One of them called out, waving in greeting. He held up his steel hand back as he used his right hand to untie the robe and let it fall to the ground, where it was gathered up by an obedient slave girl. "You have come."

Marghaz nodded as he stepped into the water, allowing the heat to wash over him. "Of course," he replied simply, giving a slight smile. He knew half of these men hated his half-blood, they considered his skin too pale and his eyes too bright, but the fresh memory of their slain hero gave them all something to be united in. "I was just with the Masters, I need to wash off the stench?"

Yezzan, the best swordsman in the legion and Djoran's preferred training companion, barked out a laugh. He was always the most jovial of the legion's officers. "Well said, Legate."

"Do we have our orders?" Khazar asked. Khazar was slighter of build than most, with a shaven head and hawkish eyes. He was ever dour and to the point, Marghaz often wondered why he came to the bathhouses anyway, they were supposedly a place of enjoyment.

Marghaz nodded. "We are to gather the legion tomorrow, we are being sent to Sothoryos."

"Sothoryos," Yezzan nodded, his mood darkened. "Hell on earth, the city was foolish to go there."

It was a mood that was echoed by the others. Marghaz, his body having mostly adjusted to the high temperature, unclasped his steel hand and called over one of the slave girls. "Put this with my robe," he said and she took it with a smile. He got the usual sense when he took of his hand, a brief feeling like a shadow of flesh on the end of his ruined stump of flesh. Slowly he lowered the stump into the hot water and winced at the initial pain, as always, but grew used to it swiftly. "Bring in the wine and apricots!" He called out and his officers let out a cheer. This was of the reasons the legions liked this bathhouse, they provided refreshment as standard. A trail of slaves brought in food and drink on silver platters and Marghaz seized a silver chalice of deep wine as it passed. He sipped on the heavy liquid, letting it slide down his throat, nourishing his tongue.

Putting the chalice on the side of the bath, he took a breath and dunked his head under the hot water, letting it wash over his hair. He rose again and wiped the water from his eyes, hearing a squeal and a splash as he did so. He blinked his eyes open and saw that one of his officers had seized a slave girl and pulled them into the water, her pale dress becoming see through in the water. She bobbed in the water and smiled at the men. Marghaz smirked as more of his officers seized the slave girls and pulled them into the water, bringing them close to their bodies and kissing them as the bath dissolved into a swirling mass of lusty soldiers and sultry slave women. Marghaz chuckled and felt a stirring inside him, it would not be the first time that this happened, though it was his first time as Legate. Djoran had always excused himself and made his way to the cold bath when the orgies began, but he was not Djoran, he was not that great, so he seized the nearest slave girl and had his way with her in the steaming water, in a room filled with moans and the sound of flesh slapping against flesh.

One by one, as his men found their pleasures in the slaves, they left the steaming hot baths and headed for the massage rooms. Marghaz made sure that he was with Yezzan and that they were serviced together, for they had matters to discuss in private. There were two slave girls here as well, ready to serve the two men who would be in the room at once. But, before Marghaz once more passed over his robe and steel hand, he seized their jaws and opened their mouths, and smiled, they had had their tongues removed to keep their silence, that they would not share secrets spoken in the massage parlour.

So he let them disrobe him and then he lay down on the table, Yezzan taking the one next to him. As the slaves and their soft hands got to work, Marghaz and Yezzan began to confer. "The Tribunes are displeased with the wait," Yezzan confided in him. "They wish to avenge Djoran as soon as possible."

Marghaz gritted his teeth. "I am with them," he replied. "I wish to have each of the masters strung up on crosses and left to die, I wish to turn Ghis into the vision our leader had, but I can't. The Masters are too careful." It was true, there were no legions on the same island as the city, they could only come for triumphs after successful campaigns, other than that they were on the island of Ghaen, north of New Ghis, and the Ghiscari Navy ruled the crossing. "I have one legion loyal to me, with one legion I cannot hope to overcome the others, who will no doubt turn on us to gain glory and wealth, we need more supporters, for that, I need a reputation, and one is to be built in Sothoryos."

"I am aware," Yezzan replied earnestly, grunting as one of the slaves eased the stress out of his muscles. "But the longer you wait, the less chance you have of gaining the loyalty of others. It is easier to gain loyalty to the recently slain, not rotten flesh, even less for bones alone."

"Sothoryos is my one chance," Marghaz confirmed. "Not so hard," he added, as the slave girl pressed a little too hard on his shoulder. "If I fail there, then I will have failed Djoran forever."

"Then you had best not fail," Yezzan said to him.

"I will not," Marghaz replied simply.

Yezzan nodded. "Good, he deserves vengeance, and you are his chosen successor, it would be unbecoming if anyone else did so."

Marghaz was about to reply, but felt a tap on the head and so pushed his head into the hole in the table so the massage slave could work on the back of the head. They didn"t speak whilst the slaves worked on them in this way, waiting until they could look at each other once more. When they were able to, they felt the thin metal blades trace over their skin, scraping off beaded sweat and any left over muck from the bathhouses.

"You know, of course, that the Governor of Sothoryos will be ordered to try and hinder your advancement. The Masters recognise your potential as Djoran"s successor and will do everything that could be done to hold you." Yezzan was voicing concerns that Marghaz had been fostering ever since he had been told that he would be going to Sothoryos.

"I know," Marghaz replied.

Yezzan pressed onwards. "You need to push further than what they will offer you. You need to make sure that you make a substantial impact, one that will be felt across New Ghis, you will have to bring back slaves by the hundred and victories by the dozen. You will have to bring back gold and glory and husbands and sons, for the people will not look well upon a Legate who loses his legion."

"If the legion dies, then I die," Marghaz said. "But neither of us will, I will bring us victory and glory in Sothoryos, the city, the legions and the people will recognise me as the legitimate successor to Djoran zo Marok, and then, when I have gathered the required support, I will crush the Masters and usher in the new age for Ghis."

Yezzan looked at him quizzically, then nodded. "You have the conviction," he commented. "That is for sure."

Marghaz was about to respond but then felt a tap on his shoulder, the massage was done, there was only one room left, the cold baths. They got up, retrieved their robes and Marghaz's hand and moved for the cold baths for one last soak before they returned to the city itself.

When they both slid into the cool and refreshing water, Yezzan continued his bombardment of questions. "Do you know why we are going to Sothoryos?"

"The brindled men are acting up, as usual," Marghaz replied. "They are attacking the colonies in force. We are to stop them."

"Brindled men make good fighting slaves," Yezzan commented.

Marghaz nodded. "Indeed," he replied. "Bringing back a few thousand brindled men slaves to fight in the pits for the entertainment of all should endear the people to me."

"Certainly it will at least keep you safe, for a while, the Masters would not dare strike at you immediately."

"With luck," Marghaz replied, "it should give me the time I need to unseat them." He plunged his head underwater and swam two lengths of the pool. Ever since he had lost his hand, swimming had become harder for him, but that was why he did it, the challenge, it was rewarding when he finished.

"With luck, though it is a mistake to rely only on luck."

Marghaz nodded and quoted his mentor. "It is a mistake to rely only on fortune, she is a devious whore and is not to be trusted."

"Just so," Yezzan replied. Yezzan took a turn at swimming and, as he did so, Marghaz rested his head on the side. When he returned, Yezzan asked, "how are his family?"

Marghaz had been close to Djoran's family for a while, closer than any other officer in the legion. "Well enough," he replied simply. "Djoran's wife and he were never close, but they are all devastated. "Grazdan wants to come with me, to learn as I did."

Yezzan smiled. "The boy always was wilful, what did you say?"

"That he was too young," Marghaz replied, "and that it would be improper for him to go to war so swiftly, he should mourn his father's death first." Marghaz sighed. "It was only a half truth," he confided in Yezzan. "If I were to take his son under my wing, it might tip my hand to the Masters early, if I refuse, it looks like I am trying to fill his shoes, not avenge him."

"I hope they buy the ruse," Yezzan commented. Marghaz nodded and, after one last dunk, he pulled himself out of the water.

He held out his hand and beckoned, a brown haired slave girl rushing over with a towel and rubbing him down, removing the excess water before turning and retrieving his robe and hand. As she pulled on his robe she squeezed his stump roughly, sending a shot of pain up Marghaz's arm. He smacked her across the face. "Careful, slave!" He snarled and she meekly retreated. He took the steel hand from her and strapped it to his arm himself.

Yezzan joined him soon after. "Where are you going now?" He asked.

"I'll find a ship across the straights," Marghaz said simply. "I want to be with my legion tonight, not this city. Besides," he added. "I need to make sure the legionnaires know we are leaving tomorrow."

Yezzan nodded. "Understandable, I'll bring the officers as well, just let them finish off first."

Marghaz agreed with him, it would not do well to interrupt their orgy, not if he wanted them on his side. "Bring them soon though," he said. "We set sail as soon as possible."

He left Yezzan to be properly pampered by the slaves and retrieved his clothes from the dressing room and left the bathouse, clean and refreshed, to make his way down to the port and find a ferry across the straights to the legion camps on Ghaen.

The port was not large, and was divided into two, making it seem even smaller. Half was donated to the Ghiscari Fleet and transports, and the other half was for traders and ships from afar. It was a hustling mass of different tongues and garbs, with the nearest buildings being inns, taverns and brothels to cater to the sailors. Marghaz wouldn't touch any of those whores with a spear, who knew what these unwashed foreigners brought with them and gave to the whores, who were often cheap so that even the lowliest deckhands could afford them.

A small stockade separated the two harbours, guarded by the same men as guarded the Pyramid of the Masters, who were supposed to not let any but a legionnaire through, but Marghaz suspected that all you needed was a little coin and they would look the other way. He showed his ring to the guard on the gate, and the large guard who stood before it lifted the bar and opened the door to him.

The other side was significantly calmer, legionnaires were more ordered than most, after all. Men were loading boxes onto boats and ships or discussing their latest deployments. Some were testing their swords or spears in the air, or were at the archery buts to one side, but there was no swirling mass of colours, all wore the dull grey armour of the legions. Marghaz ignored them all, making his way to the dockmaster. He showed his ring. "I need to get to Ghaen." The man gave him a red smile, like a man who chewed on sourleaf. Sure enough, he put some more of it in his mouth and then jerked his head in the direction of a soon to be departing galley not far away. Marghaz nodded and made his way to the ship.

Though many were making their way to Ghaen, as a Legate, and the only one on the ship, Marghaz got a priority place on the castle at the front of the ship. He leant on the railing and lost himself in thoughts of revenge, smiling at the image of the crucified masters lining the streets of New Ghis.

 _Soon_ , he thought. _Soon I will make it a reality_.


	2. Legate II

Even in the darkness of his cabin, far more than half way through the day, the heat was getting to Marghaz. The legion had set off six days ago from Ghaen: Sixty six ships carrying the legionnaires, their weapons and supplies. They had been going well at first, for they had the wind, but then, on the fourth day, a storm had scattered the fleet and they had spent the next day regrouping. Thankfully none of the ships had been sunk, though many of them were now lagging behind due to damage. They had also lost the wind, which was why, even now, Marghaz could hear the oarmasters whipping the slaves into rowing faster, harder and longer.

But the heat was a good sign, they must be close. Sothoryos had it's own kind of heat. Slaver's Bay and New Ghis were hot in their own right, but Sothoryos had a different heat, a heavy heat that weighed down on the body. The mugginess was worse. It was hot and the air was damp which of course meant flies, and Sothoryos flies were the worst of all. The air on the continent itself was worse, for, unlike at sea, it was still. There was rarely any cool breeze or wind to relieve you except right on the coast.

There was a hammering on his cabin door and he cracked open one eye. "What?" He demanded. The door opened and one of the ship's crew entered.

"Legate, we are in sight of the colony of Ghaereen, and should be landing shortly."

Marghaz nodded and waved his hand, indicating for the man to leave. He swung himself out of his hammock and stretched, relishing the feeling of relief as his shoulders and spine cracked, loosening his body up. He tied his sword on his belt and left the cabin, shielding his eyes from the light as he headed out to the deck. He headed up to the forecastle and smiled. The sight was welcome.

Unlike the mud towns of the traders, the Sothoryos colonies were fortified brick and mortar settlements. The wall was easily spotted, thirty feet of heavy stone, with hard, strong towers placed at regular intervals along them. There were townhouses and manses, markets and forges, even at this distance, he could see them clearly. Roads and paths were clearly set out in the city, lined with lamps and fountains. More obvious to Marghaz though, was that the docks were packed with people. They were huddled in groups around fires and possessions, seemingly eager to escape the city at first opportunity. They were clearly scared, but hopefully the sight of a legion arriving to relieve them, they would find their courage again. At the sight of the terrified crowd, Marghaz's mind flashed to the horrors that lay beyond the walls of the colony towns. Apes larger than giants, brindled men who would gorge themselves on the flesh of the slain, huge vampire bats that could drain the blood of their victims in minutes and more. He shuddered at the memories. This was where he would make his name, or he would die.

He turned to the captain of the ship. "Take us to the jetties, fast," he said and, without waiting for a response, he moved past to find his legionnaires. "Arm yourselves," he commands them all, "it seems we will be fighting soon after landing." His men gathered up their weapons and armour, putting them on quickly and efficiently. Marghaz had his servants place his armour on him, fastening his sword belt around his waist. He strapped his shield to his back, he would put it on his arm later.

His legionnaires soon gathered on the deck, ready to disembark and Marghaz, befitting his rank, would lead them out. There were several jetties, but it would still take the better part of an hour to disembark the whole legion, almost half that time again to get them in position on the walls. As he led his legionnaires down the ramp and onto the docks, the people parting and whispering excitedly, a delegation arrived. The master of the city, and thus supreme governor of the Sothoryos colonies, appeared to be at the head of them, for whoever was leading them wore one of the ridiculous tokars and had his hair shaped into what appeared to be butterfly wings. "Thank the harpy for your arrival," he praised, smiling widely at Marghaz as he approached. "These… barbarians have been threatening to tear down the walls."

"I will not allow it," Marghaz replied simply. "Have no fear, my legion shall repel them."

"Consul Haredan is conducting the defence of the city," the master told him. "You should inform him that you have arrived."

Marghaz nodded, this master clearly knew little of the affairs going on here, the consul, commander of all forces in the region, would, and would be able to deploy him effectively. Djoran had hardly been referred to as Consul, ever, though that probably had something to do with the way his name alone commanded respect, he rarely needed to be given the title, other consuls would willingly hand over their positions to him. Marghaz would never have such luck. He turned to his men, who were holding still in a column five men wide and twenty deep. "To the main square, march," he ordered and they set off, their centurion, two spikes on his helm, barking out the orders. Only Marghaz's own bodyguards remained behind, waiting for the horses to be unloaded that they could follow the infantry. The other infantry followed the first century when they unloaded and then the first wave of ships pushed off to allow the next set to join them.

He wanted to ride off to the centre square, but knew it was his responsibility to oversee the deployment of his men from the ships. It was a tedious chore, but a necessary one. First the heavy infantry came out in their hundreds, there were a total of four thousand, that Marghaz knew, one thousand men with pikes and another three thousand with the tall shields and three spears of the old legions, two javelins and one sturdier one to thrust with, though all of them had shortswords as well, for spears could be neutralised by removing the steel tips of them. Speaking of swords, after them came the one thousand swordsmen of the legion, who had round shields, unlike the spearmen, and falcatas, far more deadly cutting weapons than the shortswords of the spearmen and pike men. These swordsmen were capable of being used as light or heavy infantry, as required. As befitting his position of the finest swordsman in the legion, Yezzan was their Tribune. Finally came the archers; lightly armoured with only a dagger to defend themselves in melee combat, they made up the final thousand of the legion. Djoran had pushed for a formation of cavalry to become a permanent fixture in the legions, but, after his death, he had been overruled, and the five hundred horsemen were replaced with another five hundred archers.

When the last of the archers were unloaded and the damaged ships were coming in for repairs, Marghaz turned his horse to the road and, past the hopeful faces of the citizens, made his way to the main square. By this time, the sky was a dark orange and nearly black.

His legion was not in ordered formation, but they snapped into order when Marghaz arrived, lining up and ready to receive their orders.

Marghaz dismounted at the head of them and was accosted by a large man, who strained his armour to breaking point, but by the three spikes on his helmet, Marghaz could tell that this man was another legate, presumably the consul, for you could not be the latter without being the former. "Finally," he said in a loud, booming voice. "We have been expecting you for days."

"The seas were rough," Marghaz replied dismissively, not wanting to show weakness. "We have come now to assist." He pulled off his helmet and the other legate did the same. He had a large face with jutting features, more like a pit fighter than a legionnaire, but Marghaz assumed that he had earned his place, or he had a high birth, as was also possible. Flying high above him, held by two men in his retinue, were two banners, the harpy of New Ghis, clutching a thunderbolt in it' talons, and the personal flag of the consul. Each Consul could pick a personal banner of their own. This one had elected to have a harpy with a halo around it's head as his banner.

He looked sternly at Marghaz, but then broke into a wide smile. "And we are glad to have you," he said simply. He held out his hand, and Marghaz seized his wrist. "The attacks have been daily for the past month and a half, and we are down to half the number of men we began with."

"That bad?" Marghaz asked. "I heard there were two legions here."

"As I said," he said. "I have had to all but reforge them into a single legion, half the men are wounded or dead. Your own will be a great boost to them."

Marghaz gave a slight smile. "I can only hope so."

The large man shook away the uncertain comment. "They will be, they have been looking for reinforcements for days." He tapped his own chest. "Consul Haredan zo Herrideq."

"Legate Marghaz mo Teldak," Marghaz replied.

"Marghaz mo Teldak?" He asked, surprised at the name that Marghaz had given. "Djoran zo Marok's protégé?" Marghaz only nodded, he did not like speaking about Djoran with strangers. But Haredan smiled widely. "If you are half as good as Djoran said, then we are all fortunate."

"I only hope I will live up to his expectations."

"You can start now," Haredan said, beckoning him forwards. "The brindled host has fallen back for now," he said simply. "You know them, they don't attack in full force in darkness."

"Not against cities," Marghaz corrected him, "out in the jungle, in their territory, they have no rules or restrictions." Marghaz didn't follow the man yet. "Do you want my help to plan tomorrow's defence?"

Haredan smiled and nodded. "You and your officers, your legion should start resting whilst they can. We will be busy tomorrow, and you," he continued, "should get a look at the size of this horde while you can."

Marghaz nodded and turned to his legion. "Yezzan!" He called and his subordinate approached. "Get the men rested, I am going to see what we face."

Yezzan nodded. "They'll be done and ready to sleep by the time you return."

"Good," Marghaz said, and turned to leave with Haredan.

They made their way through the city streets which were filled with wounded and exhausted legionnaires, some being tended to by the temple graces, others recovering with other soldiers. A few citizen volunteers were helping where they could, but most of the men here belonged to the legions. Marghaz followed him up to the top of the walls and looked out over the plains outside the city.

His jaw dropped open. There were thousands of barbarians baying for blood, wielding weapons of wood, stone and iron. Their numbers were withdrawing into the forest, but already, Marghaz could see that there were more men than there had been as Meereen, on both sides, looking to storm the city and gorge on the flesh of those hidden behind the stone. "How many?" He asked weakly.

"Too many," Haredan said, subdued and sullen. "There is no end to them. We tried hurling their own dead back at them, but they simply ate the slain, all of them." Marghaz shuddered in revulsion. "Arrows loosed into that horde have no effect, we have no catapults left and every day they threaten to overrun the walls, truth be told boy, even with your legion, I don't know that we can win."

"And we can't evacuate," Marghaz added on helpfully.

Haredan shook his head. "We don't have enough ships to get the people out, but if we take only what we can on the ships, the rest will riot."

"No," Marghaz cut across him. Haredan turned to him surprised. "We cannot evacuate because we cannot lose, if we lose this city, then every colony will pack up and flee, New Ghis will be humiliated by barbarians; that cannot be allowed to happen."

"Oh, so you plan to defeat them do you, to hold on until this barbarian wave shatters?" Haredan did not seem convinced, but Marghaz had all but tuned out the consul as he overlooked the field outside the city with what light was left of the day. _Flat terrain, in our favour, but the forest hides their true numbers, their favour; we are tired, their favour; they are fearless, their favour_. Marghaz sighed and rubbed his temples. "We will have run out of food for a week before we have beaten this host." Haredan continued as Marghaz turned his attention back to the Consul.

"Not so," Marghaz said, smiling. "I have a plan."

Haredan looked surprised. "Fine then," he said. "We are running out of time, so let's hear it."

Marghaz looked down to the outside of the walls. "Tomorrow, just before dawn, my legion marches out of the gate."

"You what!?" Haredan asked, incredulous. "What would that gain us, only the walls have kept us safe so far?"

Marghaz ignored him, as Djoran had with dissenting officers. "We march out and form a crown," he said.

"A crown?"

Marghaz nodded. "Instead of the straight shield line, we form a line that is jagged, in spikes, if you will, like a crown, but still with interlocked shields. That, along with our javelins, will break the momentum of the enemy charge in several points, then when they hit us it will be with weak attacks and the enemy at the back will merely crush the enemy at the front against us. At the same time, we place every archer we have on the walls to fire into the horde."

"That won't work. You'll be throwing our salvation out into the open for them to destroy."

Marghaz nodded. "That is what they will think, but it will be easier to crush them against us than the wall."

"How does that work?" Haredan asked. "A wall is more solid."

"But they attack the wall with ladders yes?" Marghaz asked and Haredan nodded. "So, they will only be waiting below the wall, they will charge into my men, and the beasts in the rear will crush their own front against our shields, as I said. With our swords and spears stabbing them from several directions, thanks to our crown-like deployment, they will drive their own army to it's death against us."

Marghaz looked back at Haredan. "Only with your approval of course," he added. "You are the Consul here."

"What about the pikemen? That formation doesn't favour the pikes." It was true, so Marghaz thought through another solution. "They will form a traditional square in the middle of the line," he decided, "the spikes will be to either side of them."

Haredan took a few seconds and then his lips curled into a small smile. "If we try it and fail, we all die, if we don't try it and stand behind the city walls, we die." Haredan joined him in leaning on the wall as the sun went down. "Will your men be ready by tomorrow, or do we need to hold for another day?"

"I will have to ask them," Marghaz said, "this plan only works if they are at their physical best, but I suspect that after a good night's sleep, they will be ready to fight."

Haredan nodded. "If they are, then wake them just before dawn and assemble them behind the gate. The brindleds attack when the sun is up, so you will need to move out before then, we can't afford to have your men attacked before they are in position."

Marghaz nodded and left to inform his men of the plan, well his Tribunes at least, as Djoran said, to tell a whole legion of the plan give six thousand voices who could object. Get the Tribunes to agree, and the rest will follow, he knew that. Djoran had had the respect of the legionnaires and the loyalty of the officers, Marghaz sought to emulate him, but he had only been a legate for a month, and he was only a half ghiscari, worse, he didn't look the part, his skin was too fair and his hair too light for the comfort of many of them. But Djoran had commanded this legion since it's birth two years ago, he had instilled in them a respect for the chain of command, they obeyed him.

So, when he returned to his legion, he summoned the Tribunes, serjeants and centurions to him, and explained the plan he had concocted with them. "You think this will work?" Asked one dissenting voice, though the rhetoric seemed to be shared by many of the others present.

Marghaz nodded. "I know it will," he said with surety, for one must sound sure, or his men wouldn't be. "I know it will just as much as I know we will die if we continue to fight this battle the way it has been fought. I know it will work because I know that you, and the men serving under you, will make it work, I know this because we have fought together, the legendary Unsullied could not stop us, neither will these beasts of men."

He looked for any other signs of dissent in his officers. There were none to be found. "The legion will march with you, legate," one of them said, and the others nodded. "Bring us victory."

"I shall," Marghaz said. "I will bring you victory and glory."

With the cheers of his men as sweet music to sing him to sleep, Marghaz awaited the dawn in which he would lead his first battle as a full legate.


	3. Legate III

Marghaz was shaken awake just before dawn. He had not slept well, demons of his dreams tore the flesh from his skin whilst he screamed in pain, roasting it over the fire with wild cackles of laughter. Marghaz and his legion had roofs over their heads, due to the citizens giving up their comforts for the comforts of those who would be defending them, for which they were all thankful, the battle today would last for many hours, and a good proper rest before hand could mean the difference between victory and defeat. He wondered absently, as he swung himself off the bed he had taken for his own, whether or not the brindleds had nightmares, or any trouble sleeping at all, but then concluded that those who gorged themselves on human flesh probably had very little to disturb their slumbers.

His men were silent as they pulled on their armour and strapped their swords to their hips; they were silent still when they gathered up their spears and shields, and not one sound slipped from between their lips when moved towards the main gate, the sky a dark blue in the pre-dawn, and the street lit by candles and lamps. Lining the streets were many legionnaires and citizens of the colony, women and children watching their defenders march out to face the foe. From the looks on their faces, Marghaz deduced that they were not expected to return. As he and his bodyguard rode past on their horses, one woman broke free and held up a small blue flower to one of his guards, who took it without question, slipping it into his belt. Finally, as the tramping of the boots began to form a rhythm, Marghaz's legion arrived at the gate in full force. The Consul approached him on foot, his own guards behind him, as Marghaz's archers pressed on, scaling the walls and stringing their bows.

"Are your men ready?" He asked, in a hushed voice.

"As ready as they ever will be," Marghaz replied simply.

The Consul nodded and patted Marghaz's horse, which shied away from him until Marghaz rubbed it's neck, shushing him. "Then may the Harpy go with you," he said, and he and his men moved out of the way and gave a signal to the gate house.

With the creaking of iron hinges and the rattle of a dozen chains, the heavy gate of the colony opened and Marghaz led his legion through it as the sun began to crest the horizon.

With the pounding of five thousand feet, Marghaz's legion filed out of the city. If they had fear, they did not show it, for the serjeants led the men into their formation just as Marghaz had instructed them to. He looked up to the wall and saw that his archers, and those of the other legions were standing at the battlements, their bows at the ready. As Marghaz and his bodyguard came to a halt, the legionnaires still poured out alongside him. The pikemen came first, one thousand men with a small round shield attached to the left shoulder, so that when then leant forwards with their left side in front, they had protection, and a twenty foot pike that needed was weighted at the back but still required two hands to use. The pike itself was so long that the pikemen did not need a bigger shield to defend themselves against a swing or thrust of the enemy, no one could get close enough to do it, only missiles were the problem, and Marghaz knew from experience the main "missile" of the brindled barbarians were thrown stones.

After the pikemen had lined up in their central square, twenty deep and fifty wide, the main force of the legion, the spearmen came out. They formed their spikes on either side of the pikemen, interlocking their large, full body shields so as to protect each other. The front two ranks held their thick thrusting spears in their hands whilst those behind gripped their javelins, ready to be thrown at the enemy and disrupt their charge. If the enemy bore shields than the Javelins could also force the enemy to drop them, but few brindled men did, Marghaz suspected they didn't have the wits to conceive of the idea of protecting themselves. The spearmen formed their large spiked block which went all the way back to the wall, preventing the enemy from encircling them.

Finally, filling out the centre of the formation, gathered around him and his bodyguard, the swordsmen of the legion took up their position, their thick round shields held tightly and falcatas in their hands. With the absence of the critical cavalry, these men would be his armoured fist; they would punch through a weakened enemy position or they would chase down the enemy when they broke, thought Marghaz suspected that, in their armour, they wouldn't be able to catch the enemy.

Then, as the gate closed behind them, Marghaz saw them. Out of the trees came a vast horde of the enemy, with skin brindled like hounds, large jutting jaws and square teeth, they seemed to be more ape than man, they were certainly not worth any greater treatment than the former. In their hands, very few had weapons of iron or steel, favouring heavy bones and blunt wood, though in their heavily corded and muscled arms, these were just as deadly, able to smash open skulls and ribs to reach the softer flesh beneath, the delicacies of their kind.

They seemed confused by the arrival of the legion, almost comically some of them looked at each other. "Hold your ground," Marghaz called out, and he saw his heavy legionnaires brace themselves to hold the line against the soon to be oncoming charge.

It was signalled by a roar that built up from somewhere within the forest, spreading, like the cheers of the crowds in the fighting pits, until it reached an inhuman crescendo and, baying like hounds at the slips, the brindleds charged the legion.

"Javelins!" Marghaz roared and the third row and back of the heavy spearmen readied their first javelins. His horse, and those of his bodyguard were distressed by the sounds that came from the brindleds and they had to fight to keep them in position. When the brindleds got closer, he heard a whistle from above and, looking up, he saw hundreds of arrow shafts flying overhead, landing amidst the oncoming storm of meat. "Throw!" The first Javelins span through the air, planting themselves in the enemy. Normally there would be time for another volley, but these brindleds, for all they lacked in wits, they made up for in strength of muscle, and they were closing too fast. "Brace!" He roared and his men planted their shields, put their strength and weight behind them, and held their spears ready to thrust.

The enemy charge had been disrupted by the arrows ad javelins and so, instead of being like one sledgehammer, like a thousand little hammers the brindleds smashed into the iron legion. They charged with such speed that some pikes were suddenly spearing three of them at once, and he could see his spearmen struggling to hold back this tide, as the enemy behind pressed into those in front. This was where his spikes came into effect, for those on the inside of his spikes were being pricked from both sides by spear and sword, being swiftly cut down only to be replaced by another, and then another, the endless tide of barbarians still pressing forwards. Some of those in the rear of the barbarians tried to climb on the shoulders of those in front in order to hit over the top of the large shields. Marghaz saw one jump high, a heavy club raised in his hand, but he was met halfway by a javelin which dropped him to the ground. The din was unbelievable, the slamming of clubs on shields and squelching of steel piercing tough skin. Screams of defiance, fury and pain rent the air whilst barbaric roars, only understandable to those roaring them, rose from the tide of the enemy.

Then the horde of baying beastmen threw rocks into the air over the shields and onto the heads of his spearmen, whilst his pikemen thrust their pikes, slaughtering any who got too close to the tips, the barbarians who had charged onto them at the beginning swaying like beads on a string. Marghaz turned to his trumpeteers. "Tortoise, now." They raised their trumpets to their lips and blared out the sound for the forming of the tortoise. He did not hear his serjeants or centurions give the calls, but the legionnaires answered them, from the second row back they folded their shields over their heads, interlocking them to create and impenetrable surface, which the rock harmlessly bounced off. Whilst this solved the problem of the rocks, it only created another one. The barbarians, seeing the futility in simply hacking at the shields, began scrambling onto the top of the surface of the created walkway and began charging down towards the swordsmen, standing almost impatiently behind them. Marghaz grabbed Yezzan. "This is where the men see me fight alongside them," Marghaz said and, unclasping his cloak he dismounted, his loyal bodyguards alongside him. He raced forward, his banner carrier with him. The swordsmen roared out a warcry as Marghaz raced towards the shields. "Leg up!" He cried and the back row of legionnaires lowered their shields to be like a step, which Marghaz gladly led the way up. He unstrapped his shield and clasped it tightly to his arm, his steel hand preventing it from simply sliding off, and the tightness of the strap, preventing it from flailing about aimlessly. "For Ghis!" He roared and the swordsmen joined him, charging across the shields towards the barbarians approaching them from the other side. The first brute he fought was about six and a half feet of muscle and sinew, but had no finesse. Marghaz simply ducked under his heavy club swing and carved a deep cut into his chest, splintering ribs and carving up lungs. Marghaz absently pitied the men who had to hold up the shields as a battle raged on top of them, but they were trained for this, when training in this formation, chariots were ridden over the interlocked shields, to test their strength.

He carved the next foe who came at him, from left shoulder to right hip, letting the guts wriggle out like eels and flop on the shields. His men charged forward, cutting at the enemy with all their strength and skill; they were not as smooth or elegant as the Braavosi were known to be, butcompared to the brindleds, they had the elegance of ice dancers. Two more came at him, rotting teeth filling oversized mouth. Marghaz made the first feast on his shield, teeth clattering onto the shields whilst he blocked a strike from a heavy bone club and swiftly despatched both foes. Soon his swordsmen would be at the front, having fully forced the enemy back from clambering over the shields of his men. But this was getting harder and harder, and, if it continued much longer, his men would be overwhelmed by enemies. It was harder because so many dozens had died in the teeth of his legion that they were becoming stepping stones for the rest of the barbarians to climb over.

As his men began to cheer, unaware of the soon to be too great danger, a massive roar went up over the hordes and his men fell silent. Marghaz had not heard such roars before, but who knew what beasts lurked in the darkest places of that jungle.

It did not seem to affect the horde of the enemy, who kept on coming, but Marghaz did note one thing in their favour, and it was enough to invigorate him: The stream of enemies pouring from the untamed jungles was slowing, fewer warriors were replacing the fallen barbarians who broke upon the rock of his legion.

If this was to continue, in but a few hours the enemy would be defeated and victory would be his.

Or it would be, if the horde hadn't harnessed the power of the Sothoryi'i jungles.

With a huge roar of unison, the enemy brought their secret weapons out of the trees. Huge apes, at least two dozen of them broke from the treeline, leaves and twigs flying into the air. At least twelve feet tall, with iron balls around their fists and chains around their necks, they were being pulled in the direction the brindleds wanted them to go.

Even as fear gripped his heart, he could not help but applaud the enemy. Not so much for capturing and controlling these beasts, but for the fact that they had concealed them. He would have thought that they would have unleashed the beasts at the beginning, like an amateur commander, a child playing at war. Instead, they had held them back, and now that the horde was failing, they would try the lance. As strong as the tortoise was, those iron clad fists could smash the heavy wood shields of his legion and even the gate of the city.

With another roar, the beasts tore forward, and many of his men had already launched their javelins. "Back! He yelled, his men had to be able to see, which meant the swordsmen had to get off their shields. His men ran back along the shields and leapt off the back, reforming and turning to face the new threat. Already his serjeants were ordering that their shield be lowered to normal again as the huge hairy apes, with the same jutting jaws of the brindled men, were smashing aside any brindleds in their path to smash into the legion.

Marghaz"s mind raced, how could he counter the apes, most of whom were charging at him, but several were about to smash against the stone walls, he didn't need to worry about them. A few wooden shafts flew into the hard flesh of the apes, but it did not have any effect, they kept on coming, unrelenting as elephants.

 _Elephants!_

It came to him. "Split! He roared to his centurions and serjeants. "Like Elephants! Let them pass between you and cut them down!" His men began shuffling into paths that the apes could get down. But they were not the lockstep legions of old, nor the Unsullied of the recently destroyed Astapor, they were the citizen soldiery of New Ghis, and they knew fear. They struggled, and thin lines were made, but they were mere cracks in a wall, and the apes smashed right through. Men in armour were trampled under their huge feet, or torn apart by the monsters.

"Surround them!" He roared and his serjeants, ever faithful, and having regained a little of their courage, rallied the legionnaires, making them surround some of the apes, but still more smashed into his army, four of them were smashing their iron fists against the stone wall, their brute strength tearing great chunks out of the masonry. Marghaz pulled himself up onto his horse, he had to blunt the onslaught of these giant apes and regain the initiative of his legion. He charged at the nearest one, his loyal bodyguard following him closely. He ducked under the heavy punch of the beast and carved into it's hip, which still required him to strike high, even from his horse. But the ape had hard flesh, and Marghaz moved too fast, his sword leaving his hand and remaining wedged in the flesh of the beast. But as his bodyguard split and rode either side of the beast, nicking it with light blows of their own, it began to rage and spin, fists flailing in all directions, sending men flying when they connected.

Looking around, Marghaz seized the spear of the nearest legionnaire and charged the ape again. He couched the spear under his arm, allowing the full weight of his body to drive the spear into the belly of the beast. It roared out in agony once and spun around, iron fists flailing. "Charge!" He roared, indicating for his men to do so, and the legionnaire's obeyed him, charging from all directions, spears thrusting and swords cutting until the ape lay dead in the dirt.

That was the inspiration that was needed, the apes that were smashing his legionnaires were surrounded and cut down bit by bit, cut by cut, until they joined the first of them. A thin line of legionnaires, three men deep, was forming a shield wall against the few brindleds who were continuing to attack them, but most of the horde had broken and fled into the forest, leaving a field of fallen barbarians in their wake, for those at the back had killed those in front of them to get away faster.

"To the wall!" Marghaz ordered, his horse rearing, getting him the attention. Three apes were still smashing masonry from the wall, they were nearly through, and if they made it, then the next time the horde attacked the city, they would get inside and massacre everyone.

He put his spurs to his horse and charged the ape, his bodyguard behind him and his legionnaires behind them. He seized a javelin from a passing legionnaire and hurled it at the nearest ape, piercing the thick sinews of the beast's leg. It roared in agony and spun, iron fists flailing, causing Marghaz's horse to rear on it's hind legs and, despite trying to grab at the horse's neck with his flesh hand, he was thrown over the back of the horse and sprawled in the dirt.

He coughed in the dust, trying to rub it from his eyes as he staggered to his feet. He heard heavy footfalls as his legionnaires charged, roars of pain and death from the last apes, and an ominous cracking sound. He looked up, blinking through tears in his eyes to see hard stone begin to lean as the wall, straining from the ruthless pounding it had received, fell down on top of them all.


	4. Legate IV

He groaned with pain as he blinked himself awake. Marghaz couldn't remember the last time feeling like this: His shoulders were stiff, his arms ached, his hand could hardly move, his legs felt like pieces of cast iron stuck to a boneless torso and his head was pounding. The last thing he remembered was the crash of stone and rubble around him and the slam of his body as it hit the hard, dusty earth. Now, all he felt was heat and pain. With a parched, dry throat, Marghaz croaked out for attention and he heard voiced, although he was all but unable to determine who they were or what they were saying. The he felt someone grip his arm tightly and, off in the distance, someone was calling his name. "…n't try and move, legate, you aren't ready yet."

Everything was getting more in focus, vague shapes were becoming noses and eyes, and candles and jugs. He was in some dark room, on a rough bed, surrounded by the stench of sweat and blood. "Legate, don't!" Marghaz ignored whoever it was and, with what little strength was left in his arm, he forced himself into a sitting position.

"Drink," he croaked out finally and, someone who remembered what it meant that he was a legate, passed a cold glass into his hand. He drank heavily, the liquid, whatever it was, becoming the most exquisite thing he had ever tasted. When there was nothing left he dropped the glass, letting it fall onto the bed softly. "What happened?" He demanded.

"You won the battle," finally a recognisable voice, Yezzan. "The brindleds have fled back into their forests, but the apes…" Yezzan paused. Marghaz cleared his throat with impatience. "The apes have torn a hole in the wall, it is exposed to any future attack."

Marghaz swung one leg out over the edge of the bed. "Show me," he said. But when he pushed himself off the bed, he lost the strength in his leg and he fell forward, only the quick reflexes of one of his bodyguards prevented him from slamming his face into the carpeted floor. His hair shirt was sticking to his back, disgustingly drenched in sweat. "No," he grunted, pushing away from the bodyguard and, gently, using his hands to steady himself, he took several careful steps, walking around the room to recover some of the strength of his legs. He stopped by a large table and saw that his armour was lain out on it, his helmet had a significant dent in it, and one of the spikes on top had been sheared off completely. His cuirass was in mostly the same shape as before, though one of the shoulder straps had been ripped off and the right greave was bent out of shape. Next to his armour was his steel fist, crumpled like a used piece of paper, out of shape, only the fastening that attached it to his arm made it recognisable. Marghaz counted himself lucky that whatever had crushed it had picked the wrong hand, and flexed his right one absently. "How long?" He asked, turning to his bodyguards and Yezzan. They looked at him, not understanding exactly what he was asking. "How long since the battle, and how long will it take to repair the armour?"

"The armour is being replaced as we speak," Yezzan informed him. "The finest smiths in the city are working on it as we speak, as for the battle, it was three days ago."

Marghaz nodded and paced around the room once more, eager to get more feeling back into his legs. "Take me to the consul," he said, when he was sure enough in his footing. "I would speak with him."

His bodyguards did not look certain, but they followed their orders, and opened the door into the street. Unlike when he first came down these streets, they were now a hive of activity, wagons and crates being loaded as fast as possible. Children obeying their mothers and rushing about with all manner of household items. He stopped dead in his tracks. "What is going on?" He demanded.

One of his bodyguards answered. "The governor is rumoured to be getting ready to evacuate the city," he said. "He says the breach in the wall cannot be repaired before the brindleds march against it again and, with a hole in the wall, we will not be able to stop them."

"I would see it for myself," Marghaz said simply. He had to see the wall, and try to prevent this evacuation, if the city was evacuated after his attempt to break the siege, the masters would murder him as they had his mentor. So his guards escorted him through the streets, past the rushing peoples, to the wall, and the large hole in it.

Legionnaires surrounded the breach, conversing in hushed whispers about how they would survive the next attack with the wall broken. But as he approached with his bodyguards, and they noticed him, they parted and let him march between them, approaching the consul and the governor, who turned to him.

"Legate Marghaz!" The governor explained, greeting him cordially. "We did not expect you to be awake for days."

"Many have expectations of me," Marghaz replied coldly. "I take sincere pleasure in denying them."

"Including the brindleds it would seem," the consul added, stepping forward. "Thanks to you they were driven away long enough for us to evacuate this colony."

Marghaz shook his head. "Ghaereen is the cornerstone of the Ghiscari Sothoryos territories," he pointed out. "If we abandon it, we will be driven out of the others within the year."

"This colony is lost," the consul pointed out, indicating the large whole in the wall. "When this wall fell, so did our chance of defending this place." He stepped forwards and rested a hand on Marghaz's shoulder. "Do not fret," he said consolingly, "thanks to you, thousands will be saved."

Marghaz shrugged off the hand. "We need to rebuild the wall," he said simply. "Do that, and there is no need to retreat."

"It is not possible," the Master said, sweating like a pig. "There are not enough supplies, or men."

"Men is one thing you do not lack," Marghaz pointed out. "As for supplies, you have plenty of stone houses in this city."

Consul Haredan shook his head. "Those stones are not strong enough."

"They will last long enough to bring in the heavier ones to rebuild the wall to it's former strength," Marghaz insisted. _They have to agree with my plan,_ Marghaz knew. _If they do not, then I am a dead man, and I may as well wait for the barbarians to return so they could kill me_. "Besides," he said, waving his hand, in a manner exuding confidence. "Walls are not too difficult to build, and, as I have said, you have the men and materials."

"But not the time," Haredan replied. "You smashed the horde into pieces, but those pieces will reform, and other warlords will join them, they will have seen the wall fall, and they will come again."

Marghaz walked up the rubble to look out over the field of battle. Several pyres burned from the corpses of the fallen and the forest, dark and brooding in the heavy sunlight, seemed to be calling him in. "Not if we give them another target," he said, turning to Haredan and the Master.

"What are you talking about?" Haredan asked, confused.

Marghaz raised his stump and pointed with it towards the forest. "I march my legion into that wood, we smash the enemy in small skirmishes, or at least provide a distraction so that you can begin building the walls again."

"Madness," the master said at once. Haredan however, looked more approving. Marghaz knew why, as much as Marghaz would lose his life, Haredan would lose his command for the retreat, and a man like him knew no other life than that of the soldier.

"We wouldn't need the rebuilding to be finished," he said, looking at Marghaz and beginning to nod. "The foundations remain as ever, and the wall only need to be strong enough to repel the basic attack or raid, not like the one we fought just now, those large attacks are rare."

The master would appear to be intimidated by the Consul and nodded. "I am sure you are right Consul," he tittered.

Haredan turned back to Marghaz. "Will your men be ready to march?"

Marghaz nodded. "Yes, but not all of them will be suitable," he said. "The pikemen will be ineffective in the forests."

Haredan pursed his lips. "I do not have the authority to divide a legion up," he said. That was a lie, as consul that was entirely his prerogative, but Djoran's murder had shocked the legates, too few were willing to stray from guidelines and the rulebook. Marghaz's respect for this man dropped faster than the wall.

"As you say," Marghaz replied. "But my pikemen will be leaving their weapons here, they will need the three spears given to them."

"And the shields as well I suppose?" Haredan asked.

Marghaz contemplated and then shook his head. "No," he said finally. "They will fight as light infantry, easier in the forests."

Haredan considered and then gave his assent. "Very well, ready your legion, and prepare to march on the forest."

As Marghaz moved from the wall, and Haredan began readying the re-construction of the wall, one of his bodyguards leaned in close. "Legate, is disarming the pikemen wise?" He asked. "These men have been fighting with their pikes for nearly three years, learning anew will not be easy."

"They will learn or fail, that is their choice," Marghaz replied coldly and marched through the streets. He needed his armour repaired and a new hand. Then he had work to do.

It had taken four days to gather the necessary supplies for the expedition. They needed food, water, medicine, swords, spears, axes and javelins, these would all be essential for survival. Marghaz and his bodyguard would be leaving behind the horses, they would be no use in battle in the dark of the woods, and it saved them the need to bring fodder for the beasts. Instead, the legate would march with the legions, and fight the enemy together.

However, whilst his legionnaires had obeyed him, and begun training for their march, his serjeants and centurions were less than willing, and voice their objections repeatedly. It was too dangerous; the trees held hidden terrors; the barbarians would slaughter them; he heard each of the arguments a hundred times; and overruled them a hundred and one times; his men were legionnaires, heirs to the legacy of the finest soldiers ever produced in the world, they would march, and they would achieve victory under his command, or they would all die. That was the heart of it, but they were legionnaires sworn to the defence of Ghis and it's colonies, and he would kill them himself before they forsook this duty. He would defend Ghis from these barbarians, then he would defend it from those corrupt cravens who supposed to lead it.

Marghaz examined his new fist, it was better than the last one, it weighed more like a proper one, and it was brighter, with a gleam to it, perfect for knocking the teeth from some barbarians, or a subordinate who thought to question him in the field. His armour had been repaired, he had run the streets of the city several times to ensure that it fitted properly. It did.

"Legate," Marghaz looked over, panting, as he finished his lap of the city walls. It was three of his centurions, the two spikes on their helms showing their rank. He took a sip of water as he approached them. "What is it?" He asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

They looked at each other, nervously. "Some of the men are… unsure about your plan." One of them said to him. "They think that we are marching to our deaths."

"Maybe we are, but maybe we aren't," he replied off handedly. "It is not my concern what the men feel, only that they follow me."

"But… the jungle, hundreds of them will die."

Marghaz chuckled. "The only constant in all life is death, it is how everything ends. But," he added, taking another sip from his water. "I ask you, if you believe that I would march into that jungle if I thought we would not emerge from it. I have many plans, many tasks I must yet accomplish, I cannot accomplish them if I die in there." He approached the three men, he could see the nervousness in their eyes. It was understandable. "Look," he said taking each of them by the shoulder. "I know, that the forest unmans many a soldier. It would not be Sothoryos if it didn't. But we are the heirs of Ghis, we brought this world to heel, brought it civilisation and glory. Are we to be defeated by a _jungle?_ No, I think not. So the men will march, and we will buy time for this city to be defended again. Then we shall go home, in victory, and spend time with our families. A well-earned victory for all of you. I march alongside you, and, should the worst happen and we die, then we die together, for I will not abandon my men, all I ask in return, is that you not abandon me. Will you do so?"

Each of them shook their heads, their nerves steeled. "Good," he said. "Now make yourselves ready, tomorrow we march against hell."


	5. Legate V

Blood spurted along his arm as Marghaz slapped the mosquito that had taken rest there, bursting it in a shower of red. They had been in the jungle for two weeks now, marching along the paths, consistently harried by their enemies. At night, they had to contend with the brindled men, who attacked them in lightning raids that required constant watches. These raids drained the men, so that they were working on half stamina and energy the next day. By day they had to deal with the heat and all that came with it, beasts, insects and dehydration. Already his left leg was covered in bite marks from insects he didn't want to know the name of, and marked further by the hot knife he pressed to each bite every time the legion halted, one could never be too careful in this place.

The camp was nearly set up for the night, which was good, for the orange in the sky was rapidly fading to black. The camps that were set up were never ideal, they did not have even a palisade or ditch to hold back the brindleds, there wasn't ever time to fell the trees to create the space, but patrols around the perimeter were enough to keep the brindled from launching a full frontal attack, and these weeks of constant danger had made every legionnaire sleep lightly. Beyond that, Marghaz knew he was not alone for often sleeping in his armour, it may not be comfortable, but it made it easier to get ready for battle, and he was sure that, were he to take it off, he would be loathe to put it back on again in the heat. He walked between the sleeping men, no tents, not here, for the rain would be a relief were it to come. Many had simply flopped on the ground like a deboned fish when their serjeants said that they were to camp here for tonight. He could see grooves in the ground where spear buts had been dragged at the end of the march, the arms holding them too tired to hold them up properly. Heavy shields too, were lying haphazardly on the ground left to lie where they fell. Wearily, he saw serjeants and centurions counting their men, to see that they were all here.

His supply officer was looking at the baggage trains, mostly made up of mules in the middle of the camp, so as not to let them be captured. He needed to check in on him, learn how much they had left, and how long they could last before they needed to return to Ghaereen. "How are we doing?" Marghaz asked.

The supply officer, a slight man with red black hair looked over at him with tired eyes, circles clearly visible beneath them, the slight whiff of vomit emanated from his clothing. "In one week, I predict we will be down to half supplies." Marghaz remembered this man from the Meereen campaign, he was overly cautious, if he said one week, it was likely a week and a half at least. Still, better cautious than overly ambitious in his estimates, if he guessed to high, they could run out of supplies, which would kill them faster than anything.

"The food isn't spoiling?" Marghaz asked.

The officer shook his head. "No, and there is no sign that it is about to." He led Marghaz over to a mule pack, which he flipped open. It was packed with the typical dense biscuit of the legionnaire, baked hard, though not so hard to be inedible. Inside another pack was salt, which was used to store the meat that they would be eating, whilst huge amphorae carried sour wine and ale, easier to keep than water, which would, after a week, become a festering pit for insect life. That was on top of the ration that he knew would still be in the packs of the Legionnaires now. The officer opened yet another pack. Inside that were the ingredients to make the basic soup for the meat. Salted meat on its own was not the best, and the liquid and suet made sure that the salt didn't shrivel the tongues of the men. "It is all here, Legate," he said. "And it is all in good order."

Marghaz nodded, taking a biscuit from the first pack and biting into it. He worked his jaw hard to break it and chew through it and get the sustenance. "Keep good stock," Marghaz told the officer before returning to the place he had decided to sleep in that night, against a tree. He finished the biscuit on the way there, it was dry and tasteless, but better that than hunger. On his way back he heard a scream of pain coming from a nearby stream and rushed over to find a legionnaire lying on his back and writhing as a large fish, with teeth designed for savaging other fish, latched onto his thigh. He grabbed a shortsword from a legionnaire and rushed over, spearing the fish through the flopping body and, when it stopped moving, he grabbed the head and squeezed so the jaw opened and the legionnaire could scramble away. He through the fish back into the stream, it would not serve for eating, he would not risk it with anything coming from this jungle. Instead he passed the shortsword back to the legionnaire he had taken it from, one of a gathering crowd and approached the injured man.

The leg had been savaged deeply, the gashes long and thick and blood trickled out of them with ease. "Can you walk?" Marghaz asked and the man, biting back a moan of pain shook his head. Marghaz nodded, seized him by the arm and lifted him up, holding the man's arm over his shoulder as he directed them to a fire and set him down by it. "Someone get me bandages," he said as he took his knife, the same one he used on his mosquito bite, and placed the blade in the flames. "Bring me your pack," he said to the nearest man, who moved to obey. When he returned, Marghaz took the clay bottle of sour wine and gently poured some of it over the wounds, it would sting, badly, he knew, but better that than having to lose the leg later.

He used more of the sour wine to dampen a rag and wiped down the leg further, making sure to get all of the wounds in their entirety. "What will happen, Legate?" The legionnaire pleaded. "Will I lose the leg?"

"You," Marghaz replied, "will not wash your leg in the streams again, you should know better. That goes for all of you," he said loudly to the surrounding legionnaires. "But I don't think that the leg will be lost." He cut a strip of bandage and tied it tightly around the man's head, the thickest part holding his jaws open. "Nor will your tongue, but this will hurt." He took the knife back from the fire and examined it, the tip of the knife glowed faintly, it was hot enough. The man began to shake his head in fear. "Someone hold him down." Three of his fellows approached, one held his left arm, another his right and the third his uninjured leg. "One more for his chest," Marghaz said, and another man rested his weight atop the injured legionnaire. The Marghaz pressed the knife against each of the small bites on his leg, the flesh sizzling as the wound cauterised, it was not clean, but it was the safest way. The man's scream was muffled by the bandage and he tried to writhe against the pain, but Marghaz clapped his wounded leg between his left arm and torso, and the other limbs were secured by fellow legionnaires. When he had sealed the wounds with fire, Marghaz took a longer length of bandage and tied it gently around the wounded leg. "Release him," he said finally and the men got up. The injured man clutched at the bandaged leg, but Marghaz swatted his hand away. "What is your name?" He asked instead.

"G-Ghorgos," the man replied his fingers, unable to reach the wounds, clutching at thin air.

"Well, Ghorgos," he said, standing up and patting him on the shoulder. "You'll be fine." He took a swig of the sour wine, grimaced at the taste, and gave it back to the legionnaire it came from. "Take that as a lesson," he warned the men. "Stay away from the stream, and get some rest before tomorrow."

The shuffled off to their own chosen camping spots, and Marghaz , reaching his own chose spot, punched his pack into a more comfortable pillow shape, folded his arms across his chest, steel hand and all, and shut his eyes, trying to doze off in the sweltering heat of the Sothoryos evening.

When he awoke, there were sounds of a commotion coming from the other side of the camp. Marghaz, having long since learned that sleeping lightly saved lives, sprang to his feet and seized his sword. Men around him were waking groggily at the sounds of the commotion and getting to their own feet. Some began to follow him, one or two tripping over their tired feet. They rushed past the supplies in the middle all the way to the other end of the camp, where there were signs of a battle, dead legionnaires and brindleds lay about the place, thankfully many more of the latter. It appeared to have been a raid, for there were no more brindleds around.

Orrahz, one of his tribunes was close at hand, so Marghaz approached him. "Orrahz, what happened here?"

"I only just arrived legate," he said, looking away. "I do not know."

Marghaz cursed and was wondering what to do when a low moaning sound reached them. A serjeant still lived, having survived the raid. Marghaz rushed over, he had lost a lot of blood, and his innards were poking out of a hole in his side. "What happened?" Marghaz demanded. Trying to save this man wouldn't work, he was too far gone.

"Th-they came Legate, they came and took them."

"Who?" Marghaz demanded with haste. "Who was taken?"

"My… my centuries, both of them."

Marghaz cursed, each Serjeant had two centurions beneath him, two hundred legionnaires. "All of them?" Marghaz asked.

"Those not dead, commander," he said. "They came silently, and took them while they were sleeping, I tried to raise the alarm, but they were too quick. Lucky that a patrol came by when it did, or we would all be gone." The serjeant still had a little life in him. "Find them, Legate," he begged. "I told them I would bring them home. Find them."

The man had a strength to him, one he had not seen in a serjeant for a long time. "What is your name?" He asked the serjeant.

"Faezhar," he coughed, blood speckling his cuirass.

"I promise, Faezhar," he said. Then his head fell back, and he breathed no more.

Marghaz got to his feet and turned to his men, who were watching with trepidation. "Tribune's meeting, now."

They gathered by the supplies.

"We should turn back," one of them said. "If these brindleds can move like the ghosts that inhabit this place, then we shall be slaughtered if we don't leave."

"There are no ghosts," Marghaz insisted. "We should follow them," he said. "Rescue our men, they will lead us to their camps and villages."

But he seemed to be alone. Even ever faithful Yezzan seemed to have second thoughts. "Legate," he said, evenly and fairly. "They are lost, they will be devoured or worse, we should not risk more men by going after them."

"We should turn back," said Khazar, and this was met by murmurs of ascent from the other five tribunes of the legion. Marghaz was not short, but in that instant, he would seem to be confronted by giants.

"Give me time," he said, turning away. "Time to think over our next action, I will tell you tomorrow morning." He walked away, leaving Yezzan to keep control and organise things like patrol duty as his second in command. Instead, he returned once more to the scene of the attack. He looked over the area, thick roots coursing through the ground like swollen veins. The treeline was a phalanx of crippling thorns and brambles, except where the brindleds had dragged him legionnaires off through the trees, there the line was broken and damaged, they would not be hard to follow.

But without his tribunes, he would be walking the path alone.

He cursed and walked the camp. The word of the kidnapping had spread, and legionnaires came up to him all day asking when they were to set off in pursuit, Marghaz wanted to reassure them, to tell them that they would depart at once, but without the support of the tribunes it would not be possible.

When darkness began to descend, Marghaz still had no answer, not even as he lay his head down on his pack.

He awoke when it was still dark and made his way to the site of the kidnapping, staying in the shadows. He did not feel tired, only cold. Why could he not decide what to do? He was the chosen successor of Djoran zo Marok, the greatest soldier in the world. Had his mentor been wrong? Had he died too early? Too many questions. He knuckled his eyes to clear his head, and heard a twig snap behind him.

He spun to face the hooded figure. "Who are you?" Marghaz demanded, his had drifting for his sword.

The hooded man chuckled and then spoke. His voice was unknown to Marghaz, he had never heard it before, but the man, something alerted him as to the man, it was like he knew them, though he could not think were from. "Who am I? A question you should be asking yourself, Marghaz zo Marok."

"I am not from the house of Marok," he retorted, not taking his hand away from his sword hilt.

"But it is where you belong," the hooded man said. "It is where you have always felt you belonged, not with your father, the master of the city."

"Who are you?" Marghaz replied quietly. This man, whoever he was, knew too much about him, he had told no one of that desire, not even Djoran.

"Unimportant," he replied casually, standing still as a statue. "That is who I am. Irrelevant. The same cannot be said of my message."

Marghaz closed his fingers around the hilt of his sword. "What message?" He demanded.

Another chuckle came from the hood of shadow. "We shall get to that. First, we shall have a talk." Marghaz did not reply and the man did not get closer. "Do you know what the future has in store for you?"

Marghaz nodded. "Vengeance," he said simply.

The figure chuckled once more. "Oh, Marghaz, you are meant for far more than petty vengeance, far, far more. In time, your name will eclipse that of your mentor. But not as you are."

"What do you mean?"

"Why you cannot eclipse someone when you live in their shadow, and if you act as they do, then that is how you will stay," the hooded figure said.

"I could live in the shadow of a great man," Marghaz said. "It would still make me better than most."

"It would," the hooded man agreed. "But that is not who you are meant to be."

Marghaz did not like where this conversation was going, and he did not like the figure. He should just cut him down and be done with it. But something stayed his hand. "What do you mean?"

"Do you not see it, Legate," the figure said, using his rank for the first time. "You seek the allegiance of six men, when you have been given the opportunity to win the loyalty of six thousand."

Marghaz"s eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

The hooded figure stepped back. "The men who were captured yesterday, they remain captive, but alive. You are young, inexperienced, the tribunes think they can bully you into doing what they wish. The tribunes are not willing to pursue those who took your men. No man ever made his mark who did what men expected of him."

"I need the tribunes," Marghaz replied. This person didn't know what he was talking about, the tribunes had the men, the legate needed the tribunes.

"It is not the tribunes who fight for you, it is the legion," the hooded man said, retreating into the shadows. "Decide who you want on your side, then act."

Marghaz jolted awake with a start, the image of the hooded man seared into his vision. He blinked it out. His was unclear about who the hooded man was, but he knew what it was that he had to do.

"We have enough supplies to hold here for five days before we return to Ghaereen, yes?" He asked his tribunes.

They looked at each other, thinking that he was about to order them to look for the lost legionnaires for five days. Finally, Yezzan spoke. "Yes, Legate, but I don't-"

"Good," Marghaz cut across him. "Then, Yezzan, you shall have the command. Wait for five days, if I do not return by then, then you can take the legion back to the colony and hope the wall is up."

"Return from where," another tribune asked.

Marghaz smiled at him. "I am going to find my men, and bring them back."

They looked at him, mouths agape. "You aren't serious," he heard one say. "You'll die," said another.

"Then you won't need to worry about me or my mad orders," Marghaz told him calmly. "But my bodyguards and I shall be leaving shortly, keep things in order here for five days, surely you are capable of that."

He did not give them time to argue further, but turned and left the tent. His bodyguards, loyal men, all twenty of them that remained, silently followed him. Hundreds of Legionnaires marked their path, standing at attention. "Bring our brothers back Legate," one of them said. Other calls, identical or similar, came from the crowd as Marghaz led his bodyguard into the forest. They progressed in silence, swords out and eyes open. This was the home of the brindleds, where they could kill them as easily as they could kill the brindleds on the camp was out of sight in moments, in minutes they could hear nothing. One hour later, and Marghaz could only follow the obvious trail of a band of kidnappers further. "Argh!" Marghaz spun. A hard spike had shot out of the ground and through the foot of one of his bodyguards, who hoped in pain. Two others grabbed him to hold him still. One of them took an arrow through the throat and the rest spun to meet the brindleds.

But they did not come, instead they harassed them from the shadows. Marghaz caught one by the arm and hurled him into the centre, finishing him with a strike across his body.

Then a pit opened up and swallowed four of his bodyguards, another six lay fallen. The rest were fighting for their lives. Marghaz thrust into the shadows of the tree, and withdrew it, covered in warm blood. "Look out!" He screamed and took a step back.

Suddenly he found himself wrenched into the air by the left ankle as another pit opened, another two bodyguards falling in it. Another bodyguard found himself caught around the ankle. The last five fought and died against the shadows and the brindleds emerged from the shadows, grunting foreign laughter and binding their new prizes at hand and feet.

Marghaz continued to spit curses at them as he had a filthy rag that was covered in shit tied around his eyes, and another around his mouth. He felt himself get picked up and carried away, a new prize for the cannibalistic beasts.


	6. Legate VI

When the rag was torn from Marghaz's mouth, he spat out the taste of shit and gasped for fresh air. His shoulders ached worse than they ever had, his feet were wet with what Marghaz could only assume was blood and his metal hand was but a weight hanging off his arm. Thick ropes dug into his skin as he was dragged along by the barbarians into a baying crowd. He felt his heart beat faster as he heard them. There must have been thousands of voices shrieking and howling for blood, tens of thousands. Suddenly, not being able to see where he was going, Marghaz's foot struck a rock and, unable to catch himself, he fell forward, slamming into the hard ground with a grunt of pain.

They set upon him then. He felt hard knuckles plunge deep into his body, feet knock the air from his lungs, wooden batons slamming into his armoured back. His bodyguards were crying out for him but he had no air to call back, all of it was taken up with cries of pain as blow after blow rained on top of him. He felt a sharp crack across his face as he clambered to his knees and he was sent into a sloppy sludge that felt like wet mud. Hands dragged him from the pool of filth and he was once more at the mercy of the crowd. A fist sunk into his cheek and Marghaz yelled out, dropping to the ground, spitting out a dislodged tooth or two. A kick to his stomach dropped him to the ground again. He felt the tears in his eyes and rolling down his face as the pain only grew as more and more monsters set themselves upon him.

Then, out of nowhere, a huge horn blast rent the air and, just like that, the beating stopped. Marghaz gasped and panted as huge footfalls approached him. Suddenly, huge hands seized him and brought him to his feet. He felt the cloth around his eyes loosen and fall to the ground.

He blinked, the light reaching his eyes for the first time in what had to be days made everything seem white. Gradually though, the darkness of deep Sothoryos returned and Marghaz could look at the one in front of him. His jaw dropped. The brindled man before him had to stand at least nine feet tall. He was covered in bones, worn like armour, with an ape skull turned into a helmet. Across his back was a tree trunk of a club, while at his waist, a sword of crude and rusted iron, longer than Marghaz"s arm, hung. Eventually, Marghaz was able to tear his eyes from the man to look around him. The horde of barbarians was spread over a vast clearing, several kilometres wide. They had no tents, instead open fires roared and carcasses were roasted over them. Marghaz felt his stomach turn when he saw that several of the carcasses were human torsos and legs, turning like spits. Then, with a grip that could have crushed his skull, Marghaz felt his head get turned by the giant warrior, who seemed to be some kind of leader to the rest. _Not surprisingly_ , Marghaz thought. _Barbarian scum would follow the biggest of the lot._ Then, the warrior, having examined him, pointed to one corner of the camp and Marghaz, his bodyguards dragged behind him, was taken to the corner, were crude cages had been erected. Marghaz felt relief surge through his veins. Inside the cages were the captured legionnaires, looking haggard and worn, but very much alive.

He grunted in pain as he was tossed into the dirt. "Legate?" One of the men asked.

"Y-yes," he replied, biting through the pain.

"What are you doing here?" The legionnaire asked him.

"I came for you," Marghaz replied. "You are my men… my responsibility."

They looked to each other, seemingly stunned that their Legate would do such a thing. Then they helped him to his feet and out of his bonds. He winced in pain as they sat him against the edge of the cage. "Are you okay?" They asked him. "They didn't hurt you too much did they?"

Marghaz shook his head. "No," he replied, wincing as one of them pressed a fresh bruise. "But we will need to get out of here soon, or we are lost."

"Others have tried," one Legionnaire responded darkly. "The beasts fed well those nights."

"Shit." He looked around, at the camp outside and the men inside. "Give me some time," he said finally. "I will think of a way out of this place."

He thought. He thought until the sky darkened to orange, but still he could not think of anything. They wouldn't be able to tunnel their way out before they were spotted and devoured, they could cut their way out, they had no weapons and there were too many enemies. Was this to be his end? Dead between the teeth of some barbarian before he could get his vengeance?

He heard footsteps making their way to the cage and looked up at them. Two large warriors, though not as large as the leader by any stretch, were approaching the cages. Between them stood a cloaked figure, slight of build and with a soft manner. He pointed at Marghaz and the cage was opened to allow the barbarians to seize him. His men did not protest, after all, what could they do?

He was dragged past the sleeping and resting barbarians, who were now mercifully quiet, into the centre of the vast camp. There he was deposited at the feet of a throne of bones and skulls, held together by a mesh cage. Atop that throne sat the huge warrior chief he had seen earlier, the leader of this horde.

"You are the leader of the armour-men?" Marghaz was so shocked at the sound of a voice that he momentarily forgot his pain. He looked up. The giant had not spoken, simply looked at him. It had been the slight one.

"I… What?" He replied simply, stupidly.

The slight figure sighed and said something to the giant one, who gestured and made a noise. After a second Marghaz felt a blow on the back of his head. "Do not test him," the slight figure advised. "He has little patience." The voice of the slim man was strange. Flat and accentless.

"He can _talk_!" Marghaz exclaimed. "But he is but a beast!"

"I thought so as well," said the slight figure, pulling down his hood to reveal greying hair and deep set eyes. "But then I came to understand him and his ways, and now, I speak words that are beyond him to the ignorant like you who would destroy him. Now," he added. "I will ask again, are you the leader of the armour-men?"

Marghaz's head swam, how could a brindled man speak, they were simple beasts, who fought and ate and mated and died, that was all they were built for, they destroyed all manner of civilisation. And yet, here was a man talking with one of them! It was impossible. "I am," he replied. "And I assume that he is the leader of the barbarians." Marghaz jerked his head at the huge warrior.

"He is," the slight figure confirmed, "and you should be thankful he cannot understand your tongue, for he does not like disrespect."

Marghaz stared at the bone clad barbarian. "What does he want with me?" Marghaz asked.

"The first wave of men and war beasts that he sent against your city. They failed. He would know your defences, and you will tell him."

Marghaz spat. "I will not."

"I would advise you to reconsider," the slight figure warned him. "This man has near two hundred thousand warriors available to storm your city. It will not be saved."

"Just like a filthy barbarian piece of shit," Marghaz declared. The nerve of these barbarians, whilst they scrubbed the dirt and feasted on the flesh of fellow humans, the Ghiscari of old were building the greatest empire of man that the world had ever seen. They were only eclipsed by the dragons, and now the dragons were dead."We try and bring you civilisation, and you resent us."

"You pollute his shores with your cities and towns, force his people into bondage wherever you find them and cut down his forests," the slight figure retorted. "And you-" He was cut off by the huge leader, who had been watching with interest. The leader engaged in conversation in base, gurgling and rasping sounds. The slight figure replied, somehow Marghaz suspected that the slim man was recounting what he had said to the big warrior.

When they were done, the slight figure cleared his throat. "My master says that if you do not wish to say that is your choice, but he will make you watch as his men devour your people if you don't. He gives you three days to decide, after that, he will assemble his army and march. But before he attacks the city, he will destroy the armour-men you brought with you."

Marghaz's eyes widened. _My Legion!_ He thought as the two warriors seized him by the arms and began dragging him back. "Make your choice quickly!" The slight man called, before turning back to his master and conversing in low voices.

He was dumped back in his cage unceremoniously and the door locked behind him. "Legate!" One of the men said as they picked him up. "Are you alright? What happened?"

"The enemy plans to attack again," Marghaz said. "First they will surround the legion and then they will swarm the colony, and the defenders won't be able to stop them."

His men were silent in shock. "But…" One of them said, "we defeated them."

"There are more," Marghaz replied, his eyes closed. "There will always be more."

"So what do we do?" Another legionnaire asked.

Marghaz glanced out at the horde that surrounded them. "I don't know," he said. "I just don't know." He thought things over, but he had barely been in the camp, he did not know enough to begin formulating a plan to escape. He looked at his men, none of them looked particularly malnourished, which meant one of two things, either they were being very well fed by the brindled men, unlikely, or they had not been there long. Marghaz himself had lost track of time whilst being hooded and dragged through the trees to the brindled's camp. "How long have you been here?" He asked them.

"We came in yesterday, at dawn," one of them said.

Then they could not have come from far away. "Do you get fed?"

"Aye," said another legionnaire, "don't want us going too skinny before we get eaten."

Marghaz thought. _It might work._ "When do they feed you?"

"At dawn," said another, and only the once."

"Dawn," Marghaz repeated and closed his eyes to think. If it was at dawn then these brindleds would still be groggy, and this was a horde, not an organised army. "Who are the fastest men in this cage?"

The men seemed confused. "The fastest, Legate?"

Marghaz nodded. "Yes, who are the five fastest men in this cage?"

It took some time but eventually five men were pushed in front of him.

"How may we serve, Legate?"

Marghaz beckoned the legionnaires, all of them, nearer to him. "The only hope for the colony is to alert the legion," he said in a quiet voice, not that it should have mattered, there seemed to be only one being in the barbarian camp that could understand proper language. "Now," he continued. "Judging by how long we have been here, the camp cannot be far away. I instructed them not to move for five days from my departure. When they bring food at dawn, we overpower them and then you five," he indicated the runners, "will break out, find the camp, and alert them."

"We will also be tired, Legate," one of the runners pointed out.

Marghaz cursed, then, after a quick think, decided on how best to counter this. "Okay," he said. "Tonight, you will go to sleep now, strip off your armour so that you don't need to tomorrow, the rest of us will alternate watches, when it is clear that dawn will be fast approaching, you will be woken to stretch and warm yourselves up for the run."

"What about the rest of us?" Another legionnaire asked. "When we have overpowered the enemy, shall we leave with them? Free the other cages and break out?"

He shook his head. "No," he told them. "If there is a total breakout, the brindleds have no reason to stay, they will pursue and attack the legion before it is ready. If only a few escape, then they will send search parties, but the rest will remain here."

"Those who remain will be punished." Someone said.

Marghaz nodded. "Yes, _we_ will. But I suspect they will know I am behind it."

"How so, Legate?"

Marghaz shook his head. "I do not know how, but they somehow identified me as the leader. If so, then it may be me that is punished, the rest of you not."

His men were silent, they knew they had a duty to New Ghis, to the colony of Ghaereen, but few had been presented with news of their impending mortality. He was proud that none of them wept, retched or otherwise showed disdain, facing their fate with an iron heart.

"Legate," it was one of the runners. "What do we tell the people in the camp, and who do we tell?"

Marghaz thought it over. Before the expedition had begun, he would have said to tell the Tribunes, now he was not so sure. _Win the allegiance of six or the loyalty of six thousand,_ the hooded man from his dream had said. "Tell the serjeants the truth, and that we need their help."

"Not the Tribunes?"

He shook his head. "The Tribunes don't care, not about you, not about me, only the serjeants can save us now. Tell them," he continued. "Tell them to attack from multiple directions, that should scatter the enemy, but leave room for the enemy to flee."

The runners mouthed the words. "Repeat that to yourselves until you go to sleep, and then when you wake up, confirm with each other that you remember it as you ready yourselves."

The ache was beginning to set in to Marghaz's muscles from his binding and dragging on the way here, so he settled himself against the side of the cage to decide who would take which watch and alert the runners when they had to wake up.

He was shaken awake as Dawn began to crest the horizon. "It is time legate."

He shook himself awake, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and getting to his feet. The runners were already stretching out. Without their armour they looked very strange to Marghaz, thin hair shirts sticking to their bodies with sweat. He approached them. "You remember what to tell the serjeants?" He asked them. They looked to each other and nodded.

"Good luck," Marghaz told them, clutching each of them by the shoulders. "May the harpy's wings carry you with speed."

"Legate!" He turned. "The food is coming."

Marghaz nodded and cracked his stiff shoulders before approaching the door of the cage.

There was indeed one warrior approaching the cage, a bulging bag of some kind of food with him. It was dripping blood, and Marghaz hopped that they weren't about to be fed the bodies of their dead comrades. Past the coming warrior, he saw that most of the barbarian camp were still asleep, which boded well for the runners. He glanced at the legionnaires to either side of him, nodding to indicate that he was ready to strike. They nodded back.

When the warrior pulled open the cage and entered, Marghaz cried out, "now!" Four of his legionnaires seized the warrior and dragged him down, fists rising and falling in vengeance for their eaten comrades no doubt. Two more burst out to ensure none stopped the runners immediately. "Go, go now!" The runners rushed out of the tent and, as the brindled's camp was rousing, they sprinted off in the direction from which they had come, still recognisable by the bent branches and trunks of the trees they had been dragged past.

Marghaz and two more burst out to cover the runners. Three guards came rushing over clutching crude weapons. Marghaz charged and ducked low, slamming his shoulder into one of the barbarian's knees, tackling it to the ground. They grappled furiously on the baked ground before another legionnaire seized the warrior around the throat and choked the life from him. Marghaz struggled to his feet and seized the crude stone club, preparing to face the next opponent. The first to come up to him was holding a heavy club in both hands. Marghaz readied his smaller club and, when the barbarian raised his weapon, Marghaz smashed his own into it's mouth, knocking out it's teeth and then caving in it's skull. It was becoming a brawl between his men and the steadily increasing number of barbarians. It was good, the more they fought, the more time his runners had.

Then a horn sounded and the combat stopped suddenly. Marghaz saw that most of his men were dead or bound again. The men in the other cages had been watching intently, some praying, others cheering, but they had lost now.

He found himself seized and dragged out towards the camp, where the huge barbarian leader and his slim translator were both waiting for him. The barbarian leader grunted some commands in his brutal tongue and then Marghaz, and the survivors from his cage, were dragged forward and tied to wooden stakes, plunged far into the ground. At their feet, wooden logs and straw, grass and leaves were lain, bound around them up to their knees. Marghaz knew what was happening, they were being cooked. It seemed that he had failed. Then the warrior chieftain arrived. He grunted words at him. "The warchief asks what you hoped to achieve with this pitiful attempt at battle?" The translator asked him in the chieftain's stead.

Marghaz lowered his face to hide his smile, it seems the runners had gotten away. When he had straightened his face, he looked up. "I would rather have died in battle than any other way."

The translator told the chief who spoke in his horrid gluttural tone to his warriors. As one they raised their heads and issued baying laughter to the dawn. The chief spoke to the translator who smiled and spoke to Marghaz in turn. "Then you will be disappointed, you and your men."

He was about to question it when he was seized from behind and dragged across the rough ground. They took them to a corner of the camp where there were what seemed to be a hundred posts, with chains hanging from them. "No!" He roared and tried to fight back, not this, they would not do this to him. But it was futile, the chained him by the wrist to two of the stakes, doing the same to his men.

As warriors of the enemy laughed and began to turn, leaving them to their fate, Marghaz asked the translator. "Like this? You will just leave us here?!"

The translator turned to him and, without even asking the chieftain, he said. "Yes, your armour-men did this to his brother," he jerked a thumb back at the warrior chief who was drinking some deep red liquid through his skull helmet. "You strung him up and left him to die."

Marghaz growled. Crucifixion was for the uncivilised barbarians and escaped slaves to suffer, not him. Not Ghiscari! He growled but the translator simply walked away. "I am sorry," he said to the men around him. "We will all die here it seems."

"It was inevitable legate," a vaguely familiar voice said. "With luck, the runners will succeed, and Ghaereen can be saved."

"With luck,"

It was dawn when they were strung up. By midday the heat was unbearable, he was cooking in his armour, sweat dripping off his forehead and running into his eyes, stinging them like bees. His throat was parched, his mouth filling with saliva almost as quickly as he could swallow it. He heard moans from the other men as they began to suffer from the heat.

As the day wore on, Marghaz began hearing things, the buzzing of flies was like the beating of drums in his ears and the crackling of fire in the camp roared like a dragon. "I… never thought… I'd die… roasted like a pig… on a spit," he croaked.

"None die as they wish, Legate," the same voice as earlier said. "Few get to choose how they die, only who they die alongside."

A cascade of water splashed over him. He heard the hiss as the heat of his armour in the sun made the water turn to steam on the spot. He licked his lips as the water ran down his face, desperate for anything to quench his thirst. The barbarians were laughing at the sight of his men steaming, sweating and roasting in the sun. Marghaz had not eaten in what felt like days and what strength he had was leaving him. His legs failed him and he was soon hanging up by his arms only, waiting for death to claim him.


	7. Legate VII

The sounds he heard were vague and uncertain. Cheers, yells, and other noises reached him as he lay on the floor. He felt water trickle down his throat and it was like the ambrosia of the gods had been gifted to him. He moaned, as soon as his throat was moist enough to permit it. "He's awake," he heard a distant voice call, and it was met with more cheers and roars. "Legate, legate get up." He could smell smoke and blood, it permeated everything, even the air itself.

He felt arms raise him to a sitting position, at which point he realised that he must have been lying down. _But I was tied to posts_ , he thought, still unsure into what dream world he had entered. Maybe he was dead? No, he wouldn't be dead, if so people wouldn't be telling him to get up. Maybe he was in bed, had he fallen asleep?

Then he was hit by a gush of water to his face.

He gasped and opened his eyes, his vision blurred and distorted. Coughing he brought up his hand, which felt like a lead brick strung by a blind stonemason to a wooden stump, and wiped the water from his face. "Wh-what?" He asked, not entirely sure what his what was supposed to mean.

"They came Legate."

His eyes adjusted and the blurry images began to gain some kind of focus. He saw spiked iron helmets and sharp steel spear tips. Legionnaires. He sat up and felt a rush of pain to his head. He moaned and rubbed his forehead with his hand. "Who… what?" He asked again.

"The runners made it to the legion. They came for us."

He looked around. The ground of the clearing was littered with corpses of barbarians. Hundreds of his men were poking their weapons into the dead. Others were piling up the corpses for burial and yet more were standing guard over a large number of bound prisoners. The smoke was rising far into the air. "Help me up," he said, and his men took him by the arms and pulled him to his feet. They led him over to a nearby rock where he could sit down properly. "Tell me everything," he said.

"We did as you said, Legate," it was one of the runners who, even though they lacked armour, had a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. "We reached the legion and informed the serjeants of everything that had happened. They went to the Tribunes, but they were not willing to move."

"Of course they weren't," Marghaz muttered.

One of the Serjeants took over. "So we went without them, they were eventually forced to accept our decision. We did as you said, and attacked in several different locations, carving deep into the enemy ranks."

"They were getting ready to cook us at the time," one of Marghaz's fellow captives added. "They caught the barbarians unawares and smashed them to pieces."

Marghaz felt pride rise in his chest. "You did well," he said. "All of you. When we get back to Ghaereen, we shall celebrate this victory. And in New Ghis we shall put them," he indicated the prisoners, "in the pits and enjoy them ripping each other to shreds instead of us."

The men cheered at the prospect. When they had settled down, Marghaz asked the rest of his questions. "And the Tribunes?" He did not see them, and he doubted that they were willing to stay in the jungle for long. "Where are they?"

"They are on their way," one of the serjeants said, subdued. "They only led us when it was clear that we would not be dissuaded."

That did not surprise him in the least, so he asked the next question. "How did we lose so few men?" There were very few Ghiscari corpses amongst the dead that littered the ground.

"We formed squares," a Serjeant said. "Each of our two hundred men formed a large block and that allowed us to kill the enemy whichever side they came at us from."

Marghaz looked back to the ground, there were more dead here than there were outside Ghaereen after the battle. That would have to be something he thought about in the future. But for now, eh had another concern, as he recognised the helmets of the tribunes approaching him. "Help me up," he whispered, and one of the Legionnaires pulled him to his feet.

They bowed their heads to him. "You look well, legate," one of them said with more venom than a snake.

"I am," Marghaz answered, steadying himself on his feet. "Well enough at least." He stepped forwards, unsupported. "Their leader, did we kill him?"

"If you mean the one who stands three feet taller than the rest, then he is in chains," Yezzan said, and even he sounded much cooler.

Marghaz nodded. "What about his little advisor," Marghaz asked.

"You mean the one that can talk?" The tribune Orrahz asked. "We have him too, why?"

"Rip that one's tongue out," Marghaz said. "Then leave him behind, we take the rest with us." _Animals like that don't deserve to talk_.

He gingerly stepped forwards, testing his feet to see if they could hold his weight. "Are you sure it is time to return, legate," one of the Serjeants asked him.

Marghaz nodded. "If this didn't stop them for the time being then nothing will, and if it did, then we are no longer needed. Either way," he finished, "our place is at Ghaereen now, send a message alerting them to our return, then be ready to march, we are done with this jungle."

The word was spread and the Legion readied themselves to march back to civilisation.

The walls had been, for the most part, put back together. It was a shoddy job compared to what had been there before, but it would be sufficient to hold back the enemy that were now leaderless until they could be restored to what they once were.

"It is good to see the city again, is it not?" Asked Yezzan.

"It is," Marghaz agreed, "I need to wash this filth from me."

"I should think that, after this victory, you will be granted a bath."

Marghaz chuckled at that. It would be right wouldn't it, maybe the Master would be kind enough to let him use the one that was inevitably inside his compound. Though he doubted it, Masters knew nothing of kindness, particularly not to those like him. He was about to say as much to Yezzan, but then he heard the sounds of cheering from the walls. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see what was happening. "What is that?"

"I believe," Yezzan said. "That they are cheering for you."

"Me?" None had ever cheered for his victories before, was this what this was like? Was he truly being celebrated? He felt a smile come, unbidden to his face as they got closer and he was able to see that the walls were indeed lined with citizens of the city. The gates were opened as the legion got closer and Marghaz, leading the way, was met with the cheers and celebrations of the people.

It was not a formal parade, like they had in New Ghis proper to celebrate the glorious triumphs of the Legates and Consuls returning from campaign. In those cases, the city watch lined the street, keeping it clear for the triumphant legionnaires to pass. It would be scripted so the men would be clean and polished and knew where they were to march in perfect lockstep, if at all possible. Flowers would be strewn on the road and thrown from the rooftops by the citizens. But here there were no flowers, only the people themselves throwing themselves at his men, seeking to touch their saviours. He himself must have felt at least forty different lips touch his face in fierce kisses, had a dozen flowers pushed into his hand and unknown numbers of children hugging his legs in thanks. Nevertheless, it was important that the men kept moving, so he made sure they did, allowing the entire legion to enter the city. When the captives followed them through he heard the cheers turn to jeers and the sound of manure and worse being thrown at them. He smiled at the thought. He knew that they wouldn't try to kill them, no one tried to kill slaves when they still had a purpose to serve, even when that purpose was to die for entertainment later on in the fighting pits.

At the end of the main road, at the Master's palace, Marghaz ascended the steps, which other Legionnaires were guarding, preventing any but Marghaz and his guards from passing. He was met at the top of the steps by the Master and Consul Harredan. "You are still alive then?" Harredan asked.

Marghaz nodded. "Of course. I hope you did not expect less."

"Of Djoran, not at all, but you," Harredan said, looking him up and down. "You had yet to prove yourself. You have rectified that at the very least."

"I am glad to hear that you think so," Marghaz replied. "The enemy horde has been scattered and broken, their leader is in chains, I would think that there would be a little recognition for that."

"I believe there will be," Harredan said.

The master shuffled forwards here. "Indeed, Legate Marghaz, word of your victory has already been sent to New Ghis. We sent it as soon as your messenger arrived. They will be waiting for a hero to return, and you shall do so."

"Indeed he shall," Harredan said. He turned to the Master. "Master, Legate Marghaz and I have matters of war to discuss, you need not bother yourself with the details." The Master, sweating as he was, nodded and shuffled away, leaving Marghaz alone with Harredan. "Finally, it is good to be rid of him," Harredan said, leading Marghaz and their guards away from the crowd and into a shaded courtyard.

Marghaz nodded. "What matters of war need discussing?"

"None," Harredan confessed. "I wished to speak to you about your return to New Ghis."

"What about it?" Marghaz asked.

"You will have to be on your guard, the Masters are not going to be pleased with your victory here, with you dead or defeated you are no threat, but alive, you represent the legacy of the best of us."

Marghaz looked around for those who may listen in. "No one will talk," Harrendan said when he saw him.

"Do you think they will try to murder me?"

"Not in the city, no," Harredan said. "I sent the men to New Ghis with the message of your arrival, the city will be awaiting the return of a hero, and not even the most brazen of the Masters would dare murder a hero within the city. That and your father wouldn't have it."

"My father?" Marghaz hadn"t spoken to his father in years.

"His is a master is he not?" Harredan asked. "He would not countenance the murder of his son, and as long as you somewhat toe the line, his voice will be heard. But if you go too far there will be no one who will be able to stop the Masters from trying to eliminate you."

"They were probably hoping that I would die here."

"Probably," Harredan agreed. "But they did not succeed, and now you are stronger for it, you have a name, and a name brings hesitation, hesitation and fear."

"Fear brings action," Marghaz added. "And I do not want the masters acting against me too soon, I need time."

"That is true. You have established a name for yourself as a Legate of note, but that is all. Djoran was beyond equal."

Marghaz nodded, he knew that to be true enough, but he didn't know why Harredan was telling him this now. Was his victory truly so important? "Why are you telling me this now?"

Harredan chuckled. "Because I learned something whilst you were gone."

"What?"

Harredan turned to him. "You are aware, aren't you, that the Legates have been competing to assume Djoran's place as the First Legate, the first of us all?" Marghaz nodded. He knew that much. "Well, the decision has been made, Legate Horahn took the title, news arrived only a few days ago."

"Horahn," Marghaz muttered. A by the book commander if ever there was one, competent, but he lacked imagination, at least, according to Djoran.

"Indeed," Harredan said. "I will confess that I had hoped that the post might come to me, it is, after all, prestigious. But it seems that I will be confined to this backwater forever."

"Why Horahn?" Marghaz asked.

"Because he is too by the book to be able to plot rebellion, I suspect," Harredan answered. "The Masters are moving to ensure that the Legions are leashed to their hand."

"I still fail to see what you learned while I was in the forest."

Harredan raised an eyebrow. "Do you?" He sat down on a nearby stone bench. "I learned that things must change in New Ghis, and that you are the one who has the youth, and, following this victory, the popularity, to influence it."

"Influence it," Marghaz repeated, scoffing. "I am a soldier, not a politician."

"For now," Harredan said. "But the time may come soon that you will have to be both, that we will have to be both." He beckoned to his guards who followed him away. "Enjoy your celebrations and the comforts of the women here, the slave girls are ready and you shall have the first pick, as is befitting your rank."

"So, you divided your soldiers how?" Marghaz asked the serjeant.

"We just attacked independently, with each of the men under our command, Legate." The serjeant explained.

Marghaz nodded and sat back. "That will be all then," he said, waving his hand for the serjeant to leave him while he looked over the table in front of him.

The attack from multiple directions on the brindled's camp had been utterly devastating, far more of the enemy had been slain than had in the battle outside the city. It also had the advantage of flexibility. It would have been impossible to maintain a battle line in the forest, hence why he replaced the equipment of his pikemen, you need a full battle line in order to hold the flanks of a phalanx, or they are too easily broken. Could it become a full formation, a proper one? He was unsure, but the trip back would give him time to ponder it. But it would be useful. Lines of pikemen had been shattered by the apes of the forest, and once shattered they would be too easily destroyed by the enemy. True, the enemies he was likely to face in the future would not likely have apes, but a catapulted boulder would have much the same effect, and it would be something to counter. A battle line made up of squares, separate from each other, would be more flexible, and there were other benefits too. He would have to see to that, a more flexible legion would enable him to explore a greater variety of tactical options. Without the cavalry arm of the legion, that flexibility could be the difference between victory and defeat.

A soft moan escaped from the bed behind him and he looked around. The raven haired slave was coming to. She had a good beauty to her, which is why he had taken her, although he should probably have gone for one more experienced. She was too tired after the first round to put much effort into the second, he had had to bite her, hard enough to draw blood, in order to get her moving and making noise again, there was nothing fun in fucking a girl lying as still and silent as a corpse.

"Legate," a voice called from outside the room.

"Enter." It was one of his guards. "What is it?"

"The ships are ready for inspection, Legate," he said, bowing, then he caught sight of the slave girl behind him. "Yours, Legate?"

Marghaz glanced at her, felt nothing but disappointment, then got to his feet. "If you want her, take her, she is useless to me, I'll get another one if I need to, But I suspect we'll be on the ships this evening," He looked out of the nearest window into the air. It was past midday, which meant the worst of the heat had passed, but it was still hot out there. "I will be glad to leave this place." _Then, when I get back home,_ he thought. _I can finally start planning my revenge for you, Djoran._


	8. Consul I

Marghaz let the cheers of the crowds wash over him as his champion vanquished yet another opponent, leaving a trail of guts flopping like eels onto the sand. _It seems that savage beast does have a purpose after all_ ¸ he mused as the skull wearing warrior roared in anger, which only spurred the cheers on even more. "He is quite the warrior," the boy next to him commented. Marghaz turned to look at Grazdhan zo Marok, Djoran"s first born son. His hair was, like his father's cut to his head and a moustache was sprouting on his upper lip in a vain attempt to look older than his fourteen years.

"He is indeed," Marghaz commented. "He brought me glory, now he is bringing me riches."

The nine foot warrior demolished his next opponent, a former Unsullied warrior so quickly that Marghaz was a little disappointed himself, but an Unsullied alone was no match for a skilled warrior. "Was that truly an Unsullied?" Grazdhan asked. "I thought they were like the iron legions of old?"

"They are," Marghaz agreed. "But the strength of the Unsullied, and the modern legions, is in unity, not individual prowess, your father knew that well enough."

"I know," Grazdhan said. The boy had more of an image of a father to relate to than a father himself, so long was Djoran on campaign for his city. "Are you sure that I cannot come with you?" He asked.

Marghaz chuckled. "In a year or so, perhaps, but you have duties to your own noble house right now, to ensure that it does not fall. When that is done, then we can see."

Grazdhan nodded, he was meeker than his father, though that could be down to the fact that he was young and inexperienced, maybe sometime in the legions would help him grow into a man. But later, not now. He settled back as his champion was brought out of the fighting pit to rest and recuperate. Slaves captured in Sothoryos had little purpose other than being in the fighting pits. They were ugly so served no purpose as bed slaves, they could not be bred except with each other, anyone else would produce only stillbirths and deformed monsters. They were too stupid for labour, so they provided entertainment.

He closed his eyes for the next match, since it did not concern him, his champion was not fighting after all. Instead he leant back and let the cheers of the crowd wash over him. But then he felt a presence at his ear and looked to find a messenger bowing his head beside him. "Legate Marghaz," he said timidly. "The masters request your presence in the grand pyramid."

"Do they?" Marghaz replied. "Is it a request or an order?" He asked the messenger, who was sweating like he himself had been fighting in the pits for hours.

"I-I think they... do not wish... to have to be waiting... for... long," he said, stepping back as Marghaz fixed him with a hard and fierce gaze. He bowed and left.

Marghaz sighed and pushed himself up from his chair. "I had best go and see what they want," he said.

"Do you have to?" Grazdhan asked.

Marghaz nodded. "I won't be long," he said. "They won't want the mongrel hero in their presence for long." He followed the messenger outside the fighting pits and down the cobbled and silent streets. Most of the citizens were at the games, enjoying the spectacles that came with victories, so he his journey to the great pyramid was not interrupted. He only stopped to hand his weapons to the guards before entering the shaded building and greeting the five Masters who were waiting for him in the main chamber.

They were sitting on high back seats several steps up arranged in a semi circle around him and looking down on him. There were others in the room: The guards, which was to be expected, standing stoic and silent, and four other men. One of them was dressed in the robes of a dignitary and the others were his escort. They were not Ghiscari, he could tell that, but they looked familiar, though he could not place them.

"Legate Marghaz," said the Master in front of him, the one elected to head this meeting. The Great Chamber could seat four hundred, all of the important masters of New Ghis and many allies as well, quite comfortably. Statues of harpies served as decorations, and legionnaires as pillars. Fountains let a stream of cold water separate him, from the large central ground, which would be occupied by whoever was either delivering a speech or, as in his case, had been called upon. Tapestries of the pinnacle of the Old Empire hung from the walls as well, and light streamed in from above. "We have called you here because you are to be given a new assignment in the name of the city and the Ghiscari people."

"I live to serve the city and people," he said, clutching his fist over his breast and bowing his head. _Just not you_ , he thought.

"Very good," said the master. "Then you are to lead a campaign to the Free Cities." He looked up in alarm. No army from New Ghis had ever gone so far west before. Why would he go? "I see you are surprised. Well, you see this man?" He asked, indicating the emissary. Marghaz nodded. "This is Emissary Malaquo, of the Free City of Volantis."

That was where Marghaz recognised the style of arms of the men, they were Volantenes. "A pleasure to see you, Legate Marghaz," he said, in a voice of silk that would be perfect for wiping the arse of anyone he had to court.

"He has come to further solidify the alliance your predecessor made with the Free City against Daenerys Targaryen. We have been called upon to aid Volantis in their wars."

"Wars?" Marghaz asked.

A master to the left of him replied, "yes, if you would like to explain, emissary."

The emissary nodded. "Yes, our army has conquered Myr in a stunning victory," he said. "But now we face greater resistance from the other members of the Triarchy, Lys and Tyrosh, and more resistance is brewing. We call upon the help of your noble legions to aid us in this fight."

"Hence, we have picked you," a female master said to his left. "You are to lead our support of Volantis in their campaigns. It is for that reason, and your extraordinary success on Sothoryos, that we are naming you Consul of the expedition to the Free Cities."

He opened his mouth but no words came out. _Me, a Consul_ , he wondered. _Why are they rewarding me, they consider me a threat, surely?_ "I-I am honoured," he said bowing.

"You have earned it." Did they truly mean that, were the honouring him because they thought he deserved it, or was there another game afoot?

He bowed. "I shall ready my legion at once."

"No," said three of the Masters at once. Then the head master continued. "As of two days ago, the current men of the First Legion fulfilled their three years" service to their city. They have since been disbanded."

His euphoria at the promotion turned sour in his belly. How had he forgotten that? He had traipsed through that jungle to earn the loyalty of his men, forgetting that they were nearing the end of their service. Was that why the Tribunes were eager to get back to Ghaereen, they were eager for home, not his position. He barely heard what the Master said next. "You will be granted the newly risen men of the new Fourth and Seventh legions with which to carry out this campaign. You are the Legate of the Seventh, and Legate Orrahz will serve as the Legate of the Fourth under your command."

That wouldn't be tribune Orrahz, he knew, that man had neither the skill nor the connections to gain such a promotion. More than that, he was about to go into a campaign, a very dangerous one for arrogant Volantis to call for aid, and he had to win it with twelve thousand raw recruits who had never seen combat before. "So all my men are new recruits?" He asked them, to confirm.

"Not all," said another master. "One thousand men under tribune Yezzan wished to remain under your charge; they will serve in your new legion."

 _Yezzan, at least I have one familiar face and one thousand men who know what they are doing._ Even so, he wondered whether or not he was supposed to come back from this campaign. If they had heard of his rescue of his own men, and judged it suicidal, that might be their reasoning. Looking into their eyes, he saw hints of that in the cold brown irises. His hand curled into a fist. If this was just their latest attempt at eliminating him, it would not work. He would see to it that he survived, even if it was just to spite them. He looked into the eyes of the female master, she had a look in her smug smile that said she had no expectations of survival.

"If that is all, masters," he said, bowing. "I shall go and design my personal standard, with your leave."

The Master chairing this group nodded and dismissed Marghaz with a wave.

The standard maker's shop smelled disgustingly of dye, which was to be expected, but was still not welcome to his nostrils and he covered his nose with his mouth in a vain attempt to block it out. There was a slave girl at the welcoming desk, a jewelled collar around her neck. Being the only one with the privilege of providing the Legions and Consuls with their banners, this standard maker clearly earned enough to show it on his slave. He removed his hand from his mouth to speak with her. "Where is your master, slave?"

She got up, bowed low and went to retrieve him. She returned with a balding man, sweating heavily and with many rings on his fingers. "You must be the new Consul yes?" He asked and Marghaz nodded, not wanting to take his hand from his face. "Yes, I am sorry about the smell, please, come."

Growling at the back of his throat, Marghaz followed him deep into the workshop. He saw slaves in adjoining rooms soaking new banners and clothes in the dye. He shook his head as he thought of Daenerys Targaryen, the foolish Valyrian bitch, she would have these slaves paid, meaning that she would get less money from it herself, with which she could spend on other things. He would never understand the self righteous fools who thought they could change the proper way of things.

They finally made it to the back of the workshop where, once the dyer had closed the door, the worst of the smell could be drowned out. "My apologies, Consul," he said and he sounded earnest at least. "I had not expected you, I do normally make a point of meeting our noble soldiers in person." Marghaz nodded as the man chuckled. "It seems only yesterday that our dear Djoran was in here requesting a design for his personal standard."

Around the room were rough drawings and designs, and the man sat at his desk, where he clearly drew his designs. "So," he said, sitting down at the desk. "How can I help you? What design would you like? I have some possible bases to work off here." He held out a small pile of papers and Marghaz took them, setting them down, since he only had one hand to work with. He flicked through them. There were harpies of various designs and colours. "Please be aware that I can make any design in any colour," he said. "The colours are not limited."

Marghaz suspected that if he had asked for something truly outlandish then the man might have paled, but it would serve him no purpose to do so. His man clearly supported the soldiery, at least at some level. He finished the pile and was left without inspiration, the harpies all looked wrong, somehow. The designer saw that and spoke up. "If you wish to look around for your inspiration, maybe sketch something yourself," he indicated a thick tome. "Then please, feel free."

Marghaz nodded, there was no point in him drawing, short of quick sketches of maps for war at very short notice, there was no need for him to learn. However there was a book of designs to one side so, without any other inspiration, he began turning pages in that. It was clearly a book for foreigners to get designs of their own, for there was not a single harpy in it. Instead there was a wide menagerie of beasts of various kinds, from tigers and zorses to basilisks and wyverns. He skipped through most of them, but one caught his eye, a winged horse.

He thought it over. There was technically no rule that said that consuls _had_ to pick a harpy to put on their personal banner, but it was the way, the old way. Then he thought more. He did not like the old way, the old way brought the city to the wretched state it was in now. Perhaps something new was needed.

"This," he said, pointing to the winged horse. "I want this."

The designed trotted over and looked alarmed. "You... you want a hippogriff, Consul."

"If that is what this is called," he said. "Then yes I do."

The designed looked truly nervous now, sweating and dabbing at his forehead with a silk cloth. "But... no consul has had anything but a Harpy in some form... ever."

"Well I will have a hippogriff," he explained calmly. "The Consul is quite within his right to pick his own banner. So I will have a gold hippogriff on a purple background."

"I...I... yes Consul," the man said finally. "I will have it delivered to you on Ghaen as soon as it is ready."

Marghaz nodded, smiled at the thought of that banner fluttering in the breeze, flying over the head of his army, turned and left the building, covering his nose to block out the stench of the dyes as he did so.

Ghaen was much larger than the island on which New Ghis was located. It had many wide open fields and hills and rocky areas, very suitable for camping the legions of New Ghis between campaigns. Or maybe it was the case that the Masters did not like having so many soldiers on the same island that they lived, plotted and died on.

He had landed at the port on Ghaen, far more rigid and organised than the one in the city itself and, after finding out that his two legions where on the far side of the Island, took a horse and spurred it into action.

The two camps of his legion were arrayed neatly and identically side by side. Inside he knew there were farming facilities where the legions could grow food when not training so as to feed themselves but that there would be no training grounds. That was the point of Ghaen, the island itself was a training ground, they would train out on the hills and fields to simulate proper battlefield situations.

He dismounted entered the camp of his direct legion to find Yezzan drilling his soldiers in routine battlefield drills. "Very good, Yezzan," he said as he approached. The men were practicing their tortoise drill at the time. "I see you wasted no time."

"Of course not le- consul," Yezzan corrected himself. "I serve you as my commander." Marghaz nodded. Yezzan would be his voice of caution, as he had been in Sothoryos.

Marghaz nodded. "Men," he called out to the legionnaires. "Rest for now," with relief they lowered their shields in a clumsy manner. "Next time," he said to them, "you will lower your shields properly. You are Legionnaires for the next three years, and by the gods I will have you acting like it, now," he turned to Yezzan, "summon the officers, from tribunes to centurions, I wish to speak with them in my tent."

"Of both legions, consul?"

Marghaz nodded. "Yes, of both of them."

Yezzan began barking orders and Marghaz made his way to his tent, sitting down and tracing his steel fingers on the table. Eventually all officers from both legions arrived: Twelve tribunes, sixty serjeants and one hundred and twenty centurions. There were so many that Marghaz quickly realised he would need to speak to them outside.

When standing before them, on a small podium so that they could all see him. He spoke. "I want each of the tribunes to stand before me, with their best serjeant as well. Now!"

Taking longer than it should have, he was presented with forty eight individuals. "Legate Orrahz," he asked the legate who was to serve under him. "Who is your finest tribune?"

"Tribune Ghoraz is the most able to command his men, consul," Orrahz said. Marghaz liked this one, little sense of pomp and pride, just simple obedience and brevity.

"Tribunes Ghoraz and Yezzan," he called out to the assembled men before him. "Please stand aside," with the legate Orrahz."

They did so, stepping forward from the line of tribunes and their best serjeants. "Now, the rest of you," he said to the rest of the line. You are all tribunes now."

They looked to each other in alarm, even Yezzan looked back at him aghast. "When you return to your legions, you will split your units in half, from now on, while you serve under me, you will serve as commanders of units of five hundred men, except you two," he added turning to Yezzan and Ghoraz. "You will serve as commanders of the first units, from now on to be referred to as the First Cohort. These units will be one thousand strong, and be made up of the very best of the legions."

He let them digest their new marching orders, then continued. "The rest of you are to pick two serjeants to serve under you, each of whom will command two hundred and fifty men, each of whom will lead two centurions, commanding one hundred and twenty five men and arms."

"What is the purpose of this?" A voice called.

"For too long the legions have been too divided, too inflexible, I will change that with you. With you I will create a force of hardened soldiers able to fulfil many roles on the battlefield. For the reasons of increased flexibility and adaptability, I am hereby removing all pikes from these legions. The pikemen cohorts are to put down these cumbersome weapons and take up the regular arms of the heavy legionnaire. The archers will, however, retain their bows and continue that practice." He had made his decision after Sothoryos. His pikemen were unable to operate in jungle conditions, and they had not been able to stay with the men in his battle outside the walls of Ghaereen. Now they would.

"You will decide on which officers will be fulfilling which roles later on, but for now, I would speak to the legates, all of them, about their new responsibilities, if you would all like to join me in my tent, you too, legate Orrahz." He stepped down from the dais, leaving the rest of the serjeants and centurions whispering amongst themselves.

He nodded at Yezzan, who nodded back and turned to the officers. "QUIET! You will stay still, silent and strong, as befitting men of the legions until your consul dismisses you!"

Inside his tent, Marghaz looked down at the sequence of blocks he had arrayed. "What is the purpose of this, Consul?" Legate Orrahz asked. "Why change the legions?"

Marghaz smiled at him. "For too long the legions have been defensive in nature," he indicated the blocks which he had arranged in a single line. "We have had to wait to break the enemy or, to achieve maximum effectiveness, march forward in a single line." He indicated this with the blocks he had arranged. Looking at it like this, it was far easier to see why this was the case, and that the inflexibility was not suited to flexibility on the battlefield. "What I propose is this."

He took the blocks and rearranged them. Now they were in three lines, four blocks in the front row, three in the second and three in the third, with the two representing the archers out in front in a line of their own. The three in the second line were positioned so that they were behind the gaps created by the first line and the three in the third line were in the gaps created by the second line's blocks. "This way, the legion changes," he said. He tapped the front right block. "The first cohort, the hard strength of the men, are here, and they can then punch and swing around the enemy."

"But what about the gaps?" Asked one of the tribunes, whether he was new or not he could not say. "Surely the enemy can just come between them?"

"They can, but so can we," Marghaz pointed out. He pointed at one of the blocks in the front row. "Let us say this cohort is facing particularly tough opposition, the fact that it is held up does not hold up this cohort here," he pointed to the one behind it and to the left, facing the empty gap. "They can advance still without impediment. This means that, whatever the opposition, the legion can always advance and push right through the enemy in the field."

"Not if they face a phalanx of _pikemen,"_ another tribune pointed out.

"Pikemen are defeated by their inflexibility," Marghaz said. "One cohort fixes them in place by standing just out of range of their pikes, retreating where necessary, and another swings around the flanks and takes it in the weak side of their force, destroying them utterly."

Yet another tribune spoke up. "But what if the cohort is surrounded, what can they do then?"

Marghaz simply indicated one of the blocks. "It is a square, if they are flanked or surrounded they simply turn one of their sides to face outwards, it shall be easy without cumbersome pikes to trouble them. The more sides of the square the enemy attack, the more directions we can kill them in."

He spent what felt like hours assuaging the trepidation in his new tribunes about the new formations. "It will require training," he said. "And we have two weeks maximum to train the men in their new square formations, but that should be enough to master the basics. At least, before we head out on our first campaign."

"Where are we going, Consul?" Orrahz asked.

Marghaz smiled grimly. "The Masters have signed an agreement with Volantis, we are to aid them in their wars, which is why we need to set off soon. So return to your men, and begin your drills, for the glory of Ghis."

"For the glory of Ghis!" His men chanted.


	9. Consul II

Volantis was drunk on war.

The journey to the city had been long and arduous, but the city was like nothing that Marghaz had ever seen. New Ghis, Meereen, Astapor and Yunkai, none of them had anything on Volantis, which spanned the delta of the Rhoyne and spread out in almost every direction, a mass of stone buildings, some sinking under their own weight into the mud on the shore, others standing tall and proud. It was said that one in five men in the city were slaves. He could believe it.

But it was also celebrating the victories it had achieved. Men in tiger pelts were putting on puppet show of battles, storytellers were regaling children with tales of the brave soldiers of Volantis and criers were singing the praises of the Tiger Party, Volantis' militant elite. Even from the ship he could see that there were crude paintings of tigers. He marvelled at it. In New Ghis, the citizens would turn out for a victory celebration, but never was this level of war fervour in the streets, never this level of support among the free people.

It was glorious.

The ships were moving in to Volantis' harbour, being directed in where they land by the harbour masters. The Ghiscari Fleet, or the part of it that was transporting their legions, supplemented by ships dispatched from Volantis, put into port in a harbour into which you could drop New Ghis itself without troubling the walls.

Marghaz was the first to disembark, accompanied by his bodyguard force. He noticed the looks that the soldiers were getting from the Volantene citizenry, who did not seem to know what to make of this new force of soldiers, garbed in armour they had not seen before. "Consul Marghaz!" He turned to see a man in ostentatious dress approaching. He took Marghaz's hand in his and shook it heartily. "Thank the gods you are here," he said. "Thank them all. The general has been looking forwards to your arrival with great anticipation, he sent me here to bring you to him as soon as you arrived."

"I have to see to my men and their disembarking, emissary," he told the man, raising his steel hand to silence him. He had just noticed the collar tattooed onto his neck. This man was a slave.

"But... but Consul," the slave said, wringing his own hands now, and beginning to sweat profusely. "The general wishes-"

"The general will wait," Marghaz insisted. "My men will deploy outside the city, and I will oversee this, then I will go to the general."

He ignored the rest of the slave"s protests. _The general, whoever he is, thought to send a_ slave _to greet me, the arrogance. If he wanted my attention so badly, he should have come himself._ Disembarking one legion was hard enough, but as Consul of the entire force he had to ensure that both disembarked without issue. Thankfully, Orrahz didn't seem to need much instruction and got on with his task at once.

He smiled as his new organisational system was working. Each Tribune marched their block of five hundred men, or a thousand if they were the first cohort, down the streets in good formation. It could be improved, but it was certainly getting better. The criers immediately changed their tunes when the army began passing. Clearly they had been told in advance of the reinforcements, for they instantly started praising New Ghis and it's assistance to the Volantene cause. Soon the citizens themselves began to cheer as the legions marched down their streets with all their packs and equipment. Once they had made their way out of the gate to assemble on the plains beyond the city, Marghaz turned back to the slave, who had followed him on foot while he was on his horse, and said, "now you can take me to the general.

They made their way back through Volantis, towards the large black wall. He had read up on Volantis on the journey over, only those of the old blood could live behind them, and only by invitation could you enter without it. However they came passed a burned out husk that was in the process of being torn down. "What happened there?" He asked the slave.

"The Old Temple to the Lord of Light. The priests rebelled against the honourable and noble Triarchs, and the Golden Company purged them in punishment." Marghaz raised his eyebrows. That was quick thinking of the Triarchs, they had snuffed a rebellion before it spread to the rest of the city, judging by the state of the rest of it in any case. Thankfully the Masters of Ghis were not so forward thinking, if they were, then he would be dead by now.

Upon entering the Black City, he found it much better organised, much cleaner and much brighter than the rest of the city. The slave led him and his bodyguards past armed soldiers at the gate, who eyed them warily.

They dismounted at the foot of a dark brick building off the main square of the Black City. The noblemen gathered around eyed him with suspicion, but he ignored them as he was led the building by the slave. Inside it was sparsely decorated, which surprised him, but he was taken to a side room and the slave opened the door. "Please Consul," he said meekly. "Enter."

Marghaz nodded and entered the room.

Inside was a stone table with a map of the free cities lain out on it, various figurines placed around it, representing the various forces of the powers involved in the war. "You've arrived."

He turned to see that there was a man standing by the fire, a familiar man. "You," Marghaz breathed. It was the general who had led Volantis' force to join the Targaryen host in Meereen. He was warming his hands by the fire.

"Yes," he replied, turning to Marghaz with a smile. "Me. I see it is unexpected." Marghaz didn't reply to that. "I must admit I was surprised when your name was given to me. To rise from a second in command to a Consul of an entire campaign in such a short space of time, most impressive."

"Thank you," Marghaz replied. "But Volantis called on us for more than just pleasantries I believe."

The general nodded. "Yes, the Triarchs did sign the alliance. I agreed with their choice, and we do have a war to win I suppose."

"What authority do you have over the Triarchs in matters of war?" Marghaz asked. He didn't want to discuss plans with someone who did not have the authority to enact them

The general chuckled. "Triarch Malaquo is old, Triarch Alios has no experience and Triarch Nyessos is an Elephant. They allow me to direct the war myself, with minimal oversight."

"Then what do I call you?" Marghaz asked. If they were on an even footing, or if this man was his commander, then it would do to know his name.

"I am General Vhalasso. Now, let us approach the map, and we can discuss matters of the sword."

They approached the map. There were tiger head figures around Volantis and Myr, while much cruder figures of soldiers were placed on Lys, Tyrosh, Qohor and Norvos, there were also ships Lys and up on the Rhoyne, with a smaller number around Volantis itself. "I suppose I should give you an overview of the war so far," he said, looking at Marghaz, who nodded. That seemed reasonable.

"The war was going very well, at least at first; Myr and Lys were in disarray from the Dragonfire, and as such easy pickings. Our army had descended on Myr before they knew what had happened, it fell easily. We had hoped for a similar result in Lys, within a year, we could re-establish our empire of old. We only had to wait for our fleet to return from Lys in order to do so."

"Weren"t you on that fleet?" Marghaz asked. The man was speaking like he had partaken in the assault, but he was on the other side of Valyria.

He nodded. "I was, but Malaquo was able to take advantage of things as they are. He sent another commander to Myr."

Marghaz nodded in understanding, then tapped his steel hand next to Lys. "Those aren't tiger heads," he commented. "I suppose from that that the campaign to take Lys failed."

Vhalasso shook his head. "It never materialised. We were blindsided." He sighed. "When our army came, Myr begged Tyrosh for assistance, but they did not come, the sole extent of their help for Myr was to take in the nobles who were able to flee by ship, and their wealth. Instead of helping Myr, they sent their fleet around the Stepstones and moved on Lys."

"Lys?" Marghaz asked confused. "They attacked someone with whom they would have common cause."

Vhalasso grimaced. "Attacked implies there was a battle. That was not the case. Our spies have revealed that Tyrosh has hired a sellsword commander, skilled in war by what we can judge, to run their campaign for them. It was his decision to attack Lys. The Lyseni opened their gates and allowed the Tyroshi occupation. The Tyroshi were able to force the Lyseni to fall in line and help them recover, putting us against two united cities instead of two disjointed ones."

"You sound bitter."

"In truth," the General replied. "We had no plans to fight Tyrosh as yet, we would first consolidate our rule over the other two. But now the stakes have risen, we must go all in." He pointed at the disputed lands. "This sellsword commander has true talent, he has already struck back at us and eliminated the possibility of taking Tyrosh and Lys both, which was the main reason that we called on you and your legions."

"How so?" Marghaz asked.

Vhalasso pointed to the disputed lands. "The Tyroshi landed a force of sellswords, Myrish exiles and a few Lyseni and Tyroshi forces to the disputed lands. Our army in Myr marched out to face them. We were able to throw them back to the south, they cannot threaten the city again, but the army at Myr now needs to hold it"s ground there. They lack the forces to hold it and launch an attack elsewhere."

This sellsword commander was impressing Marghaz more and more by the second, whoever he was, he was skilled. "What about the other Free Cities?" Marghaz asked. "They surely aren't about to stand by and let Volantis gain complete control in the south?"

Vhalasso shook his head. "No, and they are only compounding our problems. Pentos may be bound by an arms limitation from Braavos, but they still have more than enough coin to finance a war, and they are loaning much to Tyrosh."

"I assume that means Sellswords?" Marghaz asked.

"Some," Vhalasso confirmed. "But not all, indeed the Tyroshi commander is making good use of the coin of the Myrish exiles, many of whom perished in the battle in the disputed lands, allowing him to seize it for the campaign. That, together with the coin "requisitioned for the war" from the Lyseni treasury, and from Pentos and Tyrosh's own coffers, has allowed them to hire thousands of sellswords, but that was not the worst they did with the coin. Envoys were dispatched to Norvos and Qohor, both of whom have marshalled in aid of the Tyroshi. River fleets are ready on the Rhoyne, and we suspect Norvoshi and Qohorik soldiers will be fighting alongside the Tyroshi in their next attempt to liberate Myr."

It was no wonder that master thought that he would die in this campaign. With every word the general said the odds were stacking against Volantis. Four of the nine free cities were fighting them, another was financing them as well. "What about Braavos?" He asked. If Braavos was also providing coin, then they had no hope.

"So far, we have heard nothing of the city of bankers getting involved," Marghaz sighed with relief. "But that may change if we cannot turn the war around soon."

Marghaz looked at him. He did not look as concerned as Marghaz felt. "Do you have a plan to make that happen?"

He nodded. "Taking Lys under their wing was Tyrosh's master stroke. Our fleet may be larger, but as long as they control the seas around the disputed lands, we cannot attack Tyrosh. Make no mistake; once Tyrosh is knocked out of the war, victory is ours. The Pentoshi will not be able to resist us and will sue for peace, and Norvos and Qohor will back out as well."

"You think so?" Marghaz asked.

He smiled. "Part of my plan is to break Norvos and Qohor on the Rhoyne, if that doesn't knock them out then the defeat of their benefactor will."

"That is part of your plan?" Marghaz picked up on that. "What is the rest?"

"As I said, as long as Lys stands, Tyrosh is safe. Lys is a hard nut that must be cracked before the war can continue."

Marghaz paused, but the general did not continue. "Is that all?" He asked.

"All for now," he said. "To plan too far ahead is to plan defeat. For now, we shall focus ourselves with the defeat of Lys and the Rhoynish attackers. This is where you come in."

Marghaz turned to him to find the general looking at him. "Me?" Marghaz asked.

Vhalasso nodded. "Yes. I know I could win on either of these fronts. That leaves you. Which do you want to follow? Would you rather take Lys for this alliance, or break Qohor and Norvos on the Rhoyne?"

Marghaz looked over the map. If he was to break Norvos and Qohor on the Rhoyne, he would have to command a river fleet, which he had no experience doing. It was true to say that he also had no experience commanding seaborne ships, but the Volantene Fleet admirals could do that, and he was at Astapor and Meereen, he knew enough about siege warfare to take the city, at least more than he knew about battles on the Rhoyne. "I will march through the disputed lands," he said. "I'll sail to Lys, and then I'll conquer it."

The general did not debate, did not ask if he was sure, he only nodded. "Very well. But before you go, do you have any questions?"

Marghaz looked back at the map. He noticed a wooden horse, stationed not far north of Volon Therys, a town north of the city under the authority of Volantis. "What is that?" He asked.

"The Dothraki Khalasar of Khal Pono," the general said. "It will not impede you, I will take enough gold to pay them off if we meet on the march north."

Marghaz raised his eyebrows. The Dothraki were a warrior people, did they truly want to risk meeting them in battle. But he seemed confident that he could buy them off. "How large is it?"

"At best count, thirty thousand riders."

He whistled. "I wish you the best of luck then." He would not envy the man who had to battle thirty thousand hardened, war-bred warriors. "What about my campaign?" He asked his next question, and the most important. "How much control do I have over it?"

"Almost total," Vhalasso told him. "You will have to fly the banner of Volantis alongside your own, but other than that, the ships that go with you will obey your commands, I will see to that."

"And the men?"

"You will only be fighting with your own," Vhalasso informed him. "I can spare no men from Volantis' garrison, my army or the army in Myr to assist you, apart from the soldiers on the ships."

That surprised him. "I thought that Volantis had a large population, and could draw more from the surrounding areas."

"We do," the general said, "and we can. But many who followed the Lord of Light answered Daenerys Targaryen's call for an army."

"What?" Marghaz had not expected to hear that name again, not here, not in this context.

"You haven't heard?" Vhalasso asked, incredulous. "She sent out a call for followers of the Lord of Light to join her in an invasion of Westeros, she recently departed with a huge army. Unfortunately so many answered her call that we face a shortage of available bodies ready for war."

Marghaz gritted his teeth. That would be why Volantis called on them. He would relish the chance to meet Daenerys Targaryen in battle and do what Djoran could not, but he had a duty here. "Then I have no more questions," he said.

Vhalasso nodded and held out his hand. Marghaz seized the arm in a tight grip and they nodded to each other. "Then I wish you the best of luck, Consul Marghaz."

"And I you, General Vhalasso."

Back with his legions, he and Orrahz overlooked them all, standing in neat formation outside the walls of the city. "They look magnificent, don't they?" Marghaz asked, beaming with pride.

Marghaz nodded. "Yes, Consul," Orrahz agreed. "They do indeed."

Marghaz sensed something from Orrahz, the legate was holding something in. "You have something you wish to say," he said. "Say it legate Orrahz."

He could sense the discomfort from the man. "It's just... the Masters, will they take kindly to this restructuring?"

"They will," Marghaz replied, "or they will not. But it doesn't matter, this is the best chance for the Legions."

"How so?"

Marghaz rested his hand on Orrahz's shoulder before indicating the legions before them. "It is my hope that, one day, all the Legions shall be great again, able to march anywhere and win any war. But that will take time, and freedom. The Masters have, perhaps unwittingly, given us both here. They cannot afford to pull us back, or they harm their new alliance with Volantis. And while we are here, we are away from Masters who might seek to enforce oversight on us."

"And this war will grant opportunities to forge this new legion, and test it against all foes."

He smiled. "Very good legate Orrahz."

"But... won't that result in death for legionnaires."

"Some would say, the masters in particular, that it is the job of a legionnaire to die in the glory of New Ghis. Besides," he continued. "All change comes at a cost, I will do my best to keep that cost as low as possible." He looked out over the shining metal armour of his legionnaires. "We are the furthest from the corrupting influence of the Masters," he told Orrahz. "The birth of a new kind of legion... the idea of a legion that can war in any place against any foe. It has to begin here, now."


End file.
